#farmaste

This weekend I watched Netflix’s newly released movie, Okja.  It is the story of a young girl (Mija) and her relationship with Okja, a “super pig” created by the multinational Mirando Corporation. Mirando developed Okja (along with a number of other super pigs) in an effort to create an animal that could feed more people with a smaller environmental impact. They sent 26 super pigs to be raised by farmers around the world and returned ten years later to choose the best example of a super pig. When representatives from Mirando Corp. arrive in South Korea to name Okja the winner of the contest and take her to New York City for the unveiling of the super pigs to the world, Mija embarks on a journey to bring Okja home. There is enough fodder in Okja for five posts. To name just a few I could write about the human / animal bond, the co-opting of activists’ language by corporations for profit, or the morality of tactics sometimes used by animal rights activists. However, as Farmaste is financially preparing to shoulder the often-high healthcare costs of farmed animals, I thought it was important to focus on the central theme of the film – the modification of animals to increase their productivity.

Photo Credit: Jo-Anne McArthur / We Animals

While the idea of a super pig such as Okja seems fantastical, the modification of animals to increase their productivity or meat yield is nothing new to the agricultural industry. Farmers have already taken some steps towards creating a super pig – selective breeding has led to longer pigs with an increased number of vertebrae in their spines. This modification has resulted in more saleable meat per animal.  Such modifications are not limited to pigs. Egg laying hens have been bred to produce between 250 and 300 eggs per year, while wild hens only lay 10-15 eggs per year. Farmed turkeys have been bred to grow so large that they have lost their ability to fly. In addition, all turkey reproduction has to take place via artificial insemination because male turkeys are now so large that they are physically unable to complete the mating process. In 1925, dairy cows in the US produced an average of 4,200 pounds of milk per year; by 2007, the average yearly milk yield per cow had increased to 20,260 pounds.

Photo Credit: Jo-Anne McArthur / We Animals

At Farmaste, these modifications are at the front of our minds as we prepare to rescue more animals. Not surprisingly, the changes made to farmed animals to increase their profitability almost universally lead to health problems and challenges to the animals’ quality of life.  Pigs and turkeys regularly suffer from arthritis and other mobility problems at early ages due to their increased size. Laying hens are prone to reproductive cancers, prolapsed uteruses, and osteoporosis due to their increased egg production. Dairy cows are prone to stomach ulcers, metabolic disease, mastitis, and calcium deficiencies. Due to these modifications and the conditions under which farmed animals typically live prior to coming to a sanctuary, their health problems begin much earlier and are often costlier than those of companion animals.

Photo Credit: Jo-Anne McArthur / We Animals

When Farmaste rescues an animal, we promise to provide them with high quality vet care that sustains their quality of life for as long as possible. We need to be confident that we will financially able to keep that promise before accepting any new resident. Cows can live to be over 20 years old at sanctuaries – it is long term commitment. Your financial contributions give us that confidence and allow us to offer sanctuary to a greater number of these amazing beings. If you have an Okja (an animal that you would go across the world to save), are bothered by the impact of industry modifications on farmed animals’ quality of life, or simply want to give more farmed animals the lives that they deserve, please consider a donation.

I sat in the living room of the rented house, sipping coffee and nervously glancing at the sky outside and refreshing the radar map on my phone, where it appeared we were under attack by a crab monster (I was staying near the BFW).

It was the last full day of a “guys trip” to northern Minnesota with my friend Dan before he and his family move out to Seattle. Though we’ve known each other since college - well enough that I was one of the groomsmen in his wedding, and he and his wife were two of the four non-family members at attendance at my wedding - it had been several years since we had spent any amount of time together. In theory Dan was working on a draft of a novel. In theory, I was there to run and drink beer. 

Except I had hoped to already be into the “running” portion of the day by 8 am, but with the Crustacean Sensation bearing down on our location, I decided to wait out the initial onslaught of the storm (Dan, who thinks running is terrible, had graciously agreed to drive me to a trail head 17 miles away and was looking forward to some coffee and his manuscript)

And so we waited, continuing the conversation from the past several days - some talk about our respective families, current events, disagreements about the best Jurassic Park movie - as the rain began to pelt the windows, the trees flailing in the wind like the thing outside a used car dealership.

And then it stopped. Go time.

We drove to the trail head and he watched in what I can only describe as bemusement as I tinkered with straps on my backpack, checking the weight distribution of the 100 oz of water, energy gels, and a Vega protein shake. It was 10:16 by the time I finally left the car. We were planning on meeting for dinner (and the beer portion of my day) at 6. I ended up squeezing in 27 miles and stumbling in the front door at 5:33 pm after 7 hours on the trail.

If you’ve never spent time on the Superior Hiking Trail, it is a fascinating place. (Also it’s called the Superior Hiking Trail because of Lake Superior, not because we Minnesotans think that it’s clearly the best trail. Though it is a pretty superior trail). Over the 300 miles of trail - I’ve been on about a third of those miles - the composition of the trail changes dramatically.

There’s sweaty climbs to the top of ridgelines looking down on the waterfall where you were just moments earlier.

Tree roots spread across some sections like tentacles, intent on grabbing your foot and sending you sprawling to the ground. Other sections are dominated by rocks, some lying in wait under a tuft of grass like a mechanical mole in a carnival game. Others there in plain sight, along with approximately 5273752 of their friends, turning each step into an awkward shuffle as your feet find themselves pointed in different directions.

Some sections feature wide open vistas, tiptoeing across plank bridges. 

Others a mere suggestion of a trail through knee deep grass as branches claw at your arms and face, requiring you to punch them out of the way like an Olympic slalom skier banging into gates in the quest for the shortest possible distance. All the while trying not to think about the zillions of snakes that are inches from your feet.

Which is why my first mile was 24 minutes (well and I stopped because I had put the water bladder in my backpack in upside down meaning that I was able to get a whole lot of air out of the plastic tube at the top of it, but none of the water down at the bottom).

It didn’t help that…well…I kinda suck at trail running. I’ve never mastered that ability to look 20 feet down the trail (to plan your path) and two feet down the trail (to execute that plan) and so I find myself taking short choppy steps, pulling my feet high into the air like in back in marching band, waving my arms like an excited Kermit the Frog as I’m flying through the air in the hopes of shifting my weight enough that I miss that rock that I didn’t notice before but not going too far left because that’s a tree root that would awkwardly send my momentum towards a 3 inch deep mud puddle.

(This is usually followed by me landing in a bush)

But, friends, for every time on the trail where I tweak my ankle or discover that what looks like solid ground is actually shin deep water, there are moments where things come together.

Though the crab monster had moved on, the weather couldn’t figure out what it wanted to do, and fog clung to the hillside and the air had the wet, heavy feeling that rain was moments away. I slid my water bottle back into my hydration vest as the trail opened up into a forest, silent except for the raging of the wind.

With no one around for miles, I still spoke my first words since starting off “Holy shit.”

For the first time all day, the trail was completely clear. No rocks, no roots, no basketball-sized piles of snakes. Just the remains of last year’s leaves, and who knows how many years ago’s pine needles blanketing the floor. Each step was met with a solid thump, seeming to reverberate out through the ground like the rings that appear when you throw a rock into a pond.

The trail ran for nearly a half mile, gently swooping down the hill in lazy curves, each one seemingly random, yet also perfectly designed. I whooped at one point, startling myself with how loud my voice seemed in the quiet of the soggy morning. At the far end of the wood, I shrugged off my backpack, pulled my Farmaste running shirt off over my head and began to walk back to the start.

Along the way I thought about how lucky I was. To be out here doing this. To have the love and support of my family, like my wife Kelly. To have friends like Dan. To feel so happy, content, connected to nature.

At the top of the hill, I turned and started to run as raindrops fell on my shirtless back. I picked up the pace, consumed by the feeling, wanting to live in the moment.

Primal.

Wild.

Free.

It felt…

It felt like this:

It felt like Moolan running through the fields of Farmaste.

Primal.

Wild.

Free.

Tears began to fall as I ran on, closing my eyes and tilting my head back, my arms stretched out to my sides, palms up as the rain intensified, silence except for my thudding steps. 

It was a moment that was beautifully simple. 

Magical. 

Perfect.

All animals - whether two legged like me, or four legged like Moolan - should have the opportunity to live life like this. Most of you are probably familiar with what life is like for most calves (if you’re not, let’s just say there’s not much playfully running through wide-open fields), and we have a choice to make about how the Moolan’s brothers and sisters will live their (much too short) lives. 

I opened my eyes a few seconds later, tearing myself away from the moment of perfection and slowly exhaling as I slowed to a walk. It was a moment - a magical, primal, free, wild, simple, connected, passionate moment - that filled me with a sense of calmness and purpose.

Last weekend I had the pleasure of the spending my afternoon with Gertrude (affectionately known as Gertie), one of Farmaste’s newest residents. Sweet Gertie is a five-year old Holstein cow who came to us from Tiny Hooves Rescue in Wisconsin when they realized they didn’t have the space that this big girl requires to be happy. We were more than happy to work with such a wonderful rescue to provide a home that could meet Gertie’s lifelong needs.

So, what did I learn about Gertie? She is still a little unsure – she doesn’t quite know what to make of her new surroundings. Because of that, she is a bit slow to warm up to new people. As you can see from the picture below, we started off our time together with a healthy distance between us! I slowly moved closer – making sure we were both comfortable with each step. Within 90 minutes, I was sitting about a foot from Gertie while she grazed, and happily took the occasional treat from me (carrots & sweet corn!).  It was then I started to see her personality. 

She is curious – she carefully explores people and her environment.

She is playful! She loves to toss her hay into the air and has fun jumping around the pasture.

She is affectionate. Once she was comfortable, she would nuzzle her head into me asking for a scratch between her ears.  A bit dangerous given her horns – but adorable nonetheless!

One of my favorite things about farm sanctuaries is getting to see animals’ unique personalities. Once they are free from the fear and discomfort they often experience in the food industry, they get to be themselves. Be that shy or outgoing, silly or serious, sweet or sassy.  While all cattle have some traits in common with each other (such as the desire to be with others as herd animals), they all also have their own likes, preferences, and ways of relating to others.

I look forward to seeing more of Gertie’s personality emerge as she becomes even more comfortable at Farmaste.  We are working on bringing home some friends for her which should help her feel more secure and confident!  More importantly, I can’t wait for all of you to meet Gertie – so that you too can come to view her (and all cattle) as someone, not something.  

Namaste.