The Accidental FarmerLearning how to farm on the fly

As the Accidental Farmer, I often struggle for guidance or a reason for why I do what I do.

I feel that this talk by Birke says more than I ever could on this subject and I encourage you to watch it.

Please Bill, say it isn't so.

“I swear. I did not have sexual relations with that woman.” Bill Clinton

I apologize for that quote as it has nothing to do with my post. I just laugh every time I utter it and try to sound like Bill. My yoga instructor tells me that I can find my transverse abdominal muscles by probing and then laughing or coughing. I prefer laughing. I hear it is great medicine.

I’m talking about the swearing and cussing your mother told you was bad. Maybe your spouse gives you dirty looks when you cuss or swear. I know mine does.

I know that many say swearing is just an easy way of getting out of the difficult task of finding the right word. While I agree with that sentiment, I think swearing can be an okay thing.

The Tenderizer

In fact, it can even be a kind of gestalt. When I smack myself with a waffle faced hammer or crack my knee on cold, hard steel while getting into the bobcat, it is nice to acknowledge it with some vocal activity. It is not as effective as morphine, but still cuts the sting.

They are just words, after all.

If you live in BC or Alberta, you can cuss like a Quebecois as long as no stiff Frenchies are within earshot. Osti, Calice, Tabarnaque. I could not count the times I heard those words uttered in the cut blocks of BC and Alberta. To me it means nothing but I know those words have powerful meaning. I just associated it with slash, rock pits and bugs.

My sheep can’t tell the difference. For them it is all about tone and decibels. If the average red neck called his dog Frick, it would never leave his side. To the animal, it doesn’t matter as long as it has a sharp sound and is familiar and affectionate.

I already use frick and shite to replace other words but I could use frolic and sheep too. Both are still good, woody sort of words.  “You silly frolic, you think your sheep don’t stink” sounds far better than the alternative.

Some folks like to swear. Others don’t and are offended by it. I appreciate the views of others so I am challenging myself to come up with words and ways of cussing that will not draw the ire of my partner or those more gentile or refined than me. I’m not a bad guy; I just have a bad habit. I love folks who can cuss like pirates as long as they do it while my mother or spouse is not around.

My Dad likes to cuss too so I come by it naturally. As a young man I worked in camps from Creston, BC to Hay River, NWT. I once danced around the pin that delineates the corner of BC, Alberta and the NWT while being devoured by bugs and cussing. My favourite uncle is a brick layer and can cuss eloquently.

I’m a man. But I can change. If I have to. I guess.

My friend Kevin Chernoff recently challenged me to grow a moustache to help raise funds for prostate cancer research. Beyond growing hair on my lip, ears and nostrils, growing hair on my head is a challenge. Were Kevin asking me to grow a Mohawk, I couldn’t help.

RIP Frank. Cause of death; prostate cancer.

My spouse is not a big fan of facial hair, even though I have assured her that I will give free moustache rides and hum any tune she requests. It’s all for a good cause, after all.

I started my ‘stache a few days back and it is coming along nicely. I am thinking that I will grow it and supplement with a nice stinger/soul patch under the lower lip, Frank Zappa style.  The brother died of prostate cancer and like him, I know style is all about accessorizing and attitude. Of course, some real style never hurts, as Frank demonstrated.

For the final photo shoot, I am considering shaving all other hair off my head if enough people are willing to step up and support prostate cancer research. For enough money, I will consider shaving my whole body with the assistance of a steady handed and qualified professional. I’ll even wear a man thong to prove it.

Not available at Zellers or Fields.

I only have 26 days so if you know any tricks for growing facial hair, I’m all ears, hairy as they may be.

I see all these ribbon campaigns and like the fact that I am going to grow my own ribbon.  It is not going to be some rubber thing I wear on my wrist or paste on my car. I can’t grow a new prostate but I can support prostate cancer research before it blows up, as it surely will if I live long enough.

My paternal grandfather died with prostate cancer in his late ‘80’s. It didn’t kill him and we did not speak of it but I know it seriously affected his quality of life. Ultimately, it was the death of my grandma, his wife of over 60 years, that killed him but it would have been nice if he didn’t suffer the last 10 years with prostate cancer. If I live to 88, it will be a reality for me too as it will be for a large percentage of men.

Click here to support prostate cancer research. I won't let you down.

Check it out my brothers and sisters.

To donate to my ‘stache, go here and click “Donate To Me”, at the top left of the page. If you are a dude with a prostate, click “Join My Team” and have a little fun.

For $1000, I will shave my head. For $2000, I will shave my entire body.

Running a farm, even a small one like ours, takes effort. Sometimes there is little to do but plough snow, feed animals and stoke fires. Other times the job list is pages long.

I still have time to ski in the winter but rarely ride my mountain bike or hike anymore. I’m not complaining. I have learned many interesting things in the last 5 years and have never eaten better.

I could never do what my partner and I accomplish together were I alone. It is a team effort and we both have our strengths and preferences. On the regular occasion that we are both stumped, we figure things out together. If one of us is busy, tired or sick, the other takes care of the chores alone.

My partner, Rachel, is a huge part of what goes on here at the farm. Anything I have learned about gardening, excepting what I’ve read on Joel’s blog, I have learned from her. When it is time to wrestle a steer to the ground and doctor him, she is right there. For 8 weeks, we went to the barn together twice a day to doctor a sick ewe that had been mauled by coyotes. When I end up in the hospital for 3 weeks, she holds the fort. When shit needs to happen, she reminds me, politely, most of the time.

We delegate chores without thinking much about it. We don’t think red/blue but take a more practical approach. We do what we know and like first. If size is an issue, it becomes a Jim job. I get in the pen and drop ewes and calves for doctoring because it makes sense. When they are down, Rachel helps keep them calm and still.

My partner Rachel loves gardening and I know little about it. I built the garden, till it and haul the manure but she makes everything else happen. Rachel is the ‘chicken lady’ and there was only one lonely rooster here until she arrived. Rachel hatches most of our chicks in the incubator and takes care of our fowl when they are small. Beyond unloading grain off the supply truck with the bobcat and taking away the manure, I do little with the layers.

If it involves power tools, chainsaws, trucks, bobcats, tractors or ditching machines, it’s a Jim job.

We share slaughtering duties and take care of all fowl together. For larger livestock, I generally get a friend or two to help depending on what and how many animals are going down that day. Rachel doesn’t like seeing the larger animals go down and that’s fine with me. She provides backup by making sure we have what we need and takes care of everything else that needs doing on the farm that day.

Rachel does all the canning and preserving, makes beer, wine and cider and decides how our meat will be cut and used among a long list of other jobs. Eating out is often a letdown as our food and Rachel’s cooking are tough to beat.

I deliver the carcasses to the butcher with Rachel’s instructions and pick up the finished product. I dig holes, do any weeding outside the garden, cut firewood, feed and water the livestock, make all calls to the vet and carry out any injections or barn procedures/surgeries, when it is an option.

Kiss me, you fool.

There is no doubt that treating a new lamb in the wee hours together is a solid bonding experience but there are times when what we do is anything but romantic. Feeling like Little Bo Peep as you are followed across the pasture by a flock of vocal ewes is charming but doesn’t make up for 6 hours in the barn, soaking wet at minus 30.

On top of what we do farm wise, we have jobs, raise two daughters and try to fit in some semblance of a life. It is not for the weak of heart or those without a healthy sense of humour.

We pay a price that cannot be measured in dollars but end up with a benefit that is in shrinking supply and tough to purchase at any price.

We took advantage of the sun and warm breeze from the south today. I was informed yesterday that today was the perfect day to kill turkeys. I am on a need to know basis.

At 8:30 am, a friend who owns 70 acres adjacent to ours and is staying with us to hunt comes back to ask for help. He gets a clean shot at a bear but it heads into a thicket and is nowhere to be seen. I send him off with my Heelers and instructions to take them to the spot where he shot it. I quickly toss the chicken manure into the garden, wash out the truck and drive near the kill. The dogs have found it in 30 seconds.

It is a nice big male and we drag it 300’, up some planks into the truck and Gene disappears with my vehicle. How this bear ran 400’ with a shot clean through its heart is beyond me.

The ones the coyotes didn't eat. Photo: Jim Ross

I always start bird slaughter by heating water. We use part of an old steel water tank and a tiger torch. It is very effective and before we know it, our water is 170 degrees F. Everyone has their preference but I like it at least 160 and find that 45 seconds at 170 is perfect for me as long as it does not become any hotter. Birds tear on the plucker if you over scald them. We are deboning all our turkeys so that is not a huge concern, but it makes whole birds look ugly.

Last year, we had Nick the Wonder WWoofer catch and hold the birds while I swung the axe. This year it was Rachel and me. After a phone call to another turkey farmer, we decide that one of us will sit on them and the other will extend the neck over the round of firewood and swing the axe. I am the axe man, Rachel is the sitter. How Nick held these birds by himself is beyond me.

The big boy and the chopping block. Photo: Jim Ross

The first bird goes well but the second bird immediately bucks Rachel off once beheaded and sprays her liberally with blood. Her white pullover looks like something out of A Clockwork Orange.  I pounce and sit on it until it stops moving and place it in a garbage can to finish bleeding out. We refine our technique and by the time the last and largest male hits the block, we are slick. Full grown turkeys are amazingly strong and can slash your arm in a second with their long, sharp claws. They easily rip through clothes if you don’t grab them just right.

Putting these large birds through our plucker intended for chickens is also a challenge. At 50+ pounds soaking wet and un-gutted, it takes all my strength to get these babies on the plucker let alone keep them there and move them around. There is a lot of grunting and groaning.

The birds are presently resting until tomorrow when we will debone them and send it all off to be ground and some turned into sausage. All large animals should be left to rest for a period of time before butchering as muscle that has not gone through the full rigor mortis process before it is cut tends to contract and make for tougher and less tasty meat. For turkeys, it is recommended you wait 6-24 hours before deboning.

As we are finishing up, Gene arrives home. His bear is 186 pounds, hanging weight and he wants to know how we want our sausage. He places the head and skin in our freezer. He has decided to keep it as the bear has a beautiful white blaze on its chest.

Five large birds ready for deboning. Photo: Jim Ross

I collect the turkey guts, heads and feathers and take them to our “gut pit” at the back of the property. I haven’t lifted my head all day so I stop to enjoy the sunset and the view for a few moments that seem like hours. The Valley is gorgeous and I drink it in.

I head home, peel off my blood soaked clothing and have a hot shower before tying into a few well deserved apple cider and debating between maple breakfast, mild Italian and rosemary-garlic sausage.

Jake Conkin Photo: Jake Conkin

Occasionally on the farm, we strike gold.

When I dig in the dirt, I hit tree roots, big boulders, and bullet proof gravel. It is when I mine relationships with others that I hit the Motherload.

A recent visit from Jake Conkin was one of those lucky strikes.

Because the former owner of our property died years ago, I concentrated my efforts on canada411. After contacting many Crebbins, I finally got a call back from Rick Crebbin on Vancouver Island. While we chatted, he punched “Pearl Crebbin” into Google and got two hits. Hard to believe I had not done that and Rick deserves credit for my lucky strike.

Rick’s first hit was a page on Jake Conkin’s website, http://www.littlejake.tv/characters/index.html As soon as he reads it to me, I know I am on the right track. I check further and find Jakes number and call him.

Image Credit: Ben Crane

It turns out that Jake and his wife Carol are both former educators with a passion for literacy, local history and cowboy history in particular. Jake has written a trilogy of books in which Pearl Crebbin is “the old spinster in the hills” and he is an “Entertainer/Author/Cowboy Poet/Cowboy Historian/M.C./Producer” This guy gets around and he grew up next door to my home. His mother and Pearl were best friends.

When he agrees to visit, I wait patiently for his return from some distant ranch. When the call comes, we set up our visit and he arrives an hour and a half later with Carol.

Before we speak much about Pearl, he describes another era. “The only vehicles traveling up and down the Valley regularly were the freight truck and the Greyhound bus. They came every few days. You could hear them rattling down the road from many miles away. Every two weeks or so, the train came up the Valley.”

He pauses.

“It was another time Jim. It was so peaceful and quiet.”

He describes how the first highway through the Valley used to weave through the Crebbin Orchard and how he and his brothers used to leave the house after breakfast and return home at dusk having spent the day finding tadpoles in the swamp, morel and pine mushrooms in the forest, splitting Pearl’s firewood for $1/half day or getting up to no good with story’s that make me laugh but are just good clean fun with no ill will intended, just a few accidental consequences.

My favourite is the time he and some buddies grabbed plywood from “Miss Crebbin’s” barn and placed it on the hill to cover up some muddy bits on the original road to the farm. Time passes, it snows a foot or two, a team of work horses pull up to the hill with their load and all hell breaks loose. He never copped at the time which makes the story better.

My other favourite is how the old Crebbin road was the place to toboggan in the neighbourhood. He describes the contraptions they used with steel runners. They sound fast and I know the last hill is steep with a good in-run and sharp corner at the bottom. The large tree at the turn, debarked and full of dents, has long since gone but I can feel the crunch.

When we start talking about Pearl, I realize that this is too much for one post and enough for another great book by Jake.

Next time, more about Pearl, but it is tough to tell that story without introducing Jake.

Below  is a copy of my email to Al Dawson regarding his recent insert attacking library funding. Thank you to the Express for publishing his email address, ad9950@telus.net

Hi Al,

I wanted you to know that I just read your insert yesterday.

I appreciate that you like small government and reduced taxes but your insert has convinced me more than ever that we need a literate population. I am uncertain who edited your work as it is a shining example of why we need libraries.

Reading and libraries teach proper sentence structure, deductive and logical reasoning and the ability to see both sides of a situation. Your insert lacked all of these things and I wanted to thank you personally for the best argument for libraries I have seen so far.

On another positive note, I have recycled your insert. We have a new litter of puppies and your insert had the perfect form and structure to help cover their litter area.

Thanks again,

Jim Ross

Al Dawson responded to my email this morning and this is his response. It is certainly an eye opener.

Jim:  Thank you for your reply to the library insert; I have never professed to be a literary giant but I have retained the ability to add and subtract pretty well and that can be a scary attribute when dealing with local gov’t matters. Let me point out a few facts for you:

>The document was constructed collectively by a working committee but formatted by myself so your assumptions are not quite correct, but I will pass this along to the committee members for review

>Unlike the library and RDCK we do not have funds to hire an editor (our funds are limited to donations from concerned taxpayers)

>Following the last stroke I had I have lost the use of most of my left arm and hand and as a result cannot manage a keyboard very well so I don’t think  a library  would correct your assumed literacy problem, but thank you for your humanitarian  concern.

>Despite your elitest attitude I am glad to hear that you are a recycler and I would have a suggestion for the ultimate recycling of the document after your litter of puppies are finished with it but I wouldn’t want to offend you with improper spelling, sentence structure, deductive and logical reasoning but I will give you a clue; the word starts with the letter A.

>In closing I must compliment you on your lack of vision in seeing both sides of the situation. I will pass this on to the pioneer fixed income seniors  and lower income taxpayers trying to survive in today’s economic and housing situation. I am sure they will appreciate your humanitarian concern for their well being.

Literally yours,

Al Dawson

And after this response, I plan to let this rest.

Hi Al,

Thank you for your response.

I am sorry to hear about your stroke and hope that at some point, you can recover some or all usage of your arm. If you want to read a book about how the brain can heal from these sorts of injuries, I would suggest reading The Brain that Changes Itself by Dr. Norman Doidge. It has one chapter that deals specifically with strokes. I suspect you can find a copy at the library.

It is also worth suggesting you look for a copy of Dragon, Naturally Speaking to assist you with typing. You speak into a microphone and the software converts your words into text. My father uses it because he is also a marginal typist and my nephew uses it because he is dyslexic. You may even be able to find it at your local library.

In terms of seeing both sides of an issue, perhaps I did not make myself clear. I respect that you want small government and less taxes. Generally, you have my full support there. I am not a big fan of the RDCK either. I feel that this is too important to play games with. I am all for a good game Al, if I support the cause and this time, I don’t support you. I will refrain from calling you names. Respect is the cornerstone of any debate. You only demean yourself by calling me names.

I am uncertain how supporting literacy makes anyone an elitist. I just want to see our area and its population thrive and find meaningful careers that don’t involve working for minimum wages in tourism, retail or fast food. If anything I want to see those marginalized in our society succeed without having to buy a library membership they can’t afford because this referendum fails.

The fact that your insert was drafted by a working committee and you truly is sad Al. Now we have a whole group of people who can’t write sensible English. It is far worse than I imagined. Thank you for clearing that up.

I hope you will put your personal health and your recovery before questionable endeavours such as your opposition to literacy in the future.

You only live once Al and I doubt you will wish for another public meeting as you take your last breath.

Sincerely,

Jim Ross

As a small farmer who keeps livestock, I am often asked if I sell meat.

I wish I could proudly say yes but unfortunately, I must smile….and say no.

Basically, if you want to buy meat from me at this time, you’d better be willing to go to the grave with me. That limits potential buyers and my ability to provide local, healthy food to a willing market who could give a damn what the regulations are. My family cannot afford the cost of lawyers and courts because government regulations are completely disconnected from the present movement back to locally sourced, healthy food that does not have to be transported half way around the world and shot full of hormones and antibiotics.

Beyond those who used to make all or part of their living as farm gate sales and their customers, this issue is largely unknown by the majority of British Columbians, particularly those who live in larger urban centers and elect our governments. Mention it to someone from Vancouver and you get a look like you are a food puritan from Mars.

One day it was legal to do farm gate sales, the next day it wasn’t. Last year, it was easier to buy dope than it was healthy, locally produced meat in the Kootenays.

Bar coded beef, Yum.

When a reputable, local butcher and supplier brought in a portable government approved abattoir, it arrived with government inspectors. Qualified professionals who had helped me slaughter my first 2 seasons suddenly would not return calls and those who did sounded pretty nervous, refused to help and hung up quickly. Local small farmers were hesitant to take animals anywhere near a government inspector, not because of concerns over meat quality, but because their license number may be recorded and their operation scrutinized, however insignificant it may be.

It was tense. Qualified meat cutters who had been working for years got grumpy about taking your meat at all. Why would they when it came with potential problems and they could do just as well cutting wildlife with a lot less complications. The government inspectors could show up without notice, cause a lot of problems and everyone knew they were about, like flies on a dead carcass.

In some remote areas of the province, regulations have been relaxed for farm gate sales because of large distances to certified abattoirs. Apparently, it is perfectly healthy to eat farm gate meat under these circumstances while it still poses a health risk elsewhere.

A "modern" farmer speaking to his shareholders. No shit on those shoes.

Most small farmers would argue that transporting live animals beyond very short distances for slaughter is a bad idea. Most of these animals have never seen the inside of a truck or trailer. When you run a feedlot and sell massive numbers of cows to distant customers who don’t care, transporting long distances is of little concern, beyond weight loss from dehydration before animals hit the scales.

Most folks who raise small amounts of meat feel a lot differently. Our animals are as cool as cucumbers when they go down. It is just another day on the farm as far as they are concerned with their head down in a bucket of grain. Life is good, right up to the last breath.

An even crazier aspect of these regulations is the fact that I can give and whole animal to the local food bank and they can give it away and all is good if you are broke or destitute. I am not even going to get into the deeper issues that raises. It makes my head want to explode.

As small farmers, we would all love to help you eat well. Most could easily add production.

Inspected and approved but is it edible or safe?

Today, if you want some healthy meat, “you can get your own bad reputation” (David Wilcox) and if you want to supplement your costs by selling one or two animals, you risk jail time, fines and membership in the Meat Mafia.

Once again, poorly conceived laws have little positive effect, make some rich and force law abiding citizens to engage in criminal activity so they can make, what should be, a personal choice and nothing more.

All that. Just so we can eat healthy food and say “Man, Herman* grew some great beef this year”.

If it is true that government has no place in the bedrooms of the nation, they should stay out of our freezers too.

*Herman is not an actual farmer. All names have been changed to protect the innocent, except David Wilcox who sings a great tune called Bad Reputation.

On occasion, someone visits the farm and makes a difference in ways we could not have imagined, a genius in their own way. Their help outlasts their physical presence. Sometimes they bless us for minutes, other times for days and months.

Nick is one of the latter.

My friend Brian calls to say he just got a call from a guy on the coast who wants to WWoof here. In fact he has bought a bus ticket and is arriving at 6 am tomorrow morning. Brian already has two WWoofers and wants to know if I want help as he knows I need it. Who doesn’t?

I call Nick’s cell phone and leave a message to call back. The phone rings, we set it up and 7 hours later I pick him up after a long trip on The Dog. He’s big, strong and pleasant, polite as hell in fact. He is a 28 yr old Brit with a degree in aquaculture and likes working out at the gym. He has been working at the end of some inlet on an aquaculture farm that is experimenting with growing multiple species of sea animals and plants in a closed system that doesn’t flush huge amounts of fish poop into open water. Cool. The Dog lost half his baggage which they never do find.

We chat easily until we get back and he crashes. He couldn’t be more different from me but I immediately like him.

The truth comes out. The Operative, assassinating an apple tree in the garden.

We have a lot of projects on the go and little hope of completing them all so we start with some easy ones. Before I know it, we are tackling the last big project and I haven’t fed or watered animals in weeks. It just happens. Nine hundred meters of new fence are cut from bush and done complete with electric fencing.

One day, I arrive home and we walk to the fence job. Nick is limping. He confesses that he tried to roll a 400 pound roll of fencing up a 30 degree slope alone when it broke loose, ran him over and took out a medium sized tree before flattening several new fence posts, which he has already replaced. This sounds like something I might do. I love this guy. I teach him how to run a chainsaw and a bobcat.

Two heads are better than one, but Nick and I together are like a small army. He forces me to focus on projects and when I leave, he’s like an MI5 Special Farm Operative, completing jobs and solving problems I am unaware of. It’s magic and blissful. I refer to him as Bond, Nick Bond.

He has become part of our family. Our girls love him and the critters come to him before me. His parents come for a Canadian visit and dinner. We feel we have known them forever and get roaring drunk on liquor and laughter. Nick is the gracious barb of many jokes and stories.

Nick left a year ago today.

We set him up with a place to stay in Squeemish at my sister-in-law’s and he spent the winter working from 4 – 10 pm at a high end photography studio (a passion of his) in Whistler and learning the finer points of ski bumming, an honourable endeavour I always encourage.

We send him a care package of assorted meats as he left prior to slaughtering and we know what it is to be living snow and craving protein. I hear that an old ski bum friend has spotted him and pounced. He is one havesome devil. I smile.

Sometimes, you gotta roll with the punches and a ski bum needs nourishment too.

I moved onto The Accidental Farm on December 21^st, 2005 with my Blue Heeler, Marley.

Marley loved the animals, chasing them in particular. The donkey, she developed a playful relationship with. We got familiar with the animals we had inherited. There wasn’t much to do but plough snow, feed animals and ski. No matter how I organized my 3 rooms of furniture in the 4 bedroom house, it still looked as stark as an IKEA advertisement.

I met the neighbours and quickly became interested in the person who had owned the orchard and farm which our property was part of. The previous owners had built the barn on the location of the original old barn. I kept digging up crude horse shoes, big ones. I sensed there was a story.

When the road first came through Slocan Park, it detoured to the northeast because the existing location was a swampy slough in many places. The original road came right past our home on Upper Slocan Park Road and joined with what is now a dead end road called Crebbin Road.

Pearl Crebbin owned the property and also operated the local post office from the front of her log home. It appears that Pearl ran the farm alone. She was a slight woman but was tenacious.

Bob, my neighbour, grew up in the area with his 2 brothers. Their father often sent the boys up to check on ‘Old Lady Crebbin’. Bob tells a story about chatting with Pearl as she drew a 30-06 onto her shoulder, released the safety, aimed above and to the left of his head, and shot a black bear out of an apple tree. She put the rifle down and continued the conversation as if she had just sneezed.

Rumour has it that Pearl had a romance with a wealthy married local business tycoon and lived out her days pining for him, sure that he would leave his wife for her. She never did marry.

When the local volunteer fire department got the call that there was a fire at Old Lady Crebbin’s, they responded to find 5-10,000 rounds of ammunition going off in a fire they presume was caused by a tipped gas lantern, but didn’t get close enough to find the cause. They dove for cover and the fire raged.

We don’t know more than that about Pearl. We have a large collection of her horse-shoes, some old ploughing implements and a two wagon assemblies that are quickly turning to dust. We tend a dozen 50+ year old apple trees that she likely planted and cared for. Perhaps there is a black bear buried near one of them.

Bob tells a story of asking Pearl if she wanted one old wagon, which she did not. He and his buddies pushed it down the hill until it got flat and then went and got their dad to help them drag it home. It sat there for decades until the previous owner of my property spotted it, paid $500 for it and paid a truck to haul it home, where it still sits.

Dave's next project

We gave a bunch of old wagon wheel parts to Dave in Fruitvale who makes wagon wheels and wagons as a hobby. His work is showcased at Fort Steele with their beautiful work horses. Apparently, some of our parts are perfect for building wheels to support the large water/fire wagon the horses haul. Before Pearl’s old wagon is unrecognizable, we will give that to him too.

We hope that would make Pearl happy.