The first weekend of October was devoted to installing the new forest. The purpose of this mass planting is to create screening between my neighbor’s house and mine and to also block the view of the back of my house from people coming down the road. To give you a sense of scale, the installation is about 200 feet long and 30 feet deep.

I had bought 44 trees and shrubs, and it took two long weekend days of nonstop work to install 27 of them. I am grateful for my tree planting partner father, as well as his backhoe and tractor and skid steer that made it possible to pick these trees up. Some were quite large and must have weighed several hundred pounds. And even with the heavy equipment we both did a lot of shoveling. And we’re still not done…

My vision for this part of the landscape is of a multilayered hedge with mixed tall evergreens forming an all-seasons background screen and shorter deciduous trees in front to provide seasonal interest with their flowers and fall color. It looks a little sparse now as I positioned the trees with a mind to their mature sizes but already it’s having the effect of drawing attention away from undesirable views and toward the trees. It is a major change for what used to be perfectly pretty pasture, and I hope it works out! Below is the view from my neighbor’s fence line back toward my compound.

I spent all last Sunday watering the trees and staking them. I am torn about staking: all the recent research suggests that it can do more harm than good to young trees. Stress and movement of the tree in the wind actually encourage the tree to develop a stronger root system and stockier trunk. However, I also know that this field is incredibly windy in the winter, and I fear that without some support these top-heavy evergreens will be lifted right out of the ground. So each tree got one stake, to be removed as soon as the roots show signs of having knit themselves to the earth. I found this publication by the University of Minnesota to be incredibly helpful.

I also loosely wrapped the trunks of the deciduous trees in balled up deer netting and tied it on. The theory is that deer don’t like the feeling of the netting and refrain from scratching their antlers against the trunks—a rather rude act that can kill a young tree.

Now I just need to order a couple of truckloads of mulch from my mulch guy and tuck these babies in for the winter!

Dug these out of the ashes of Saturday night’s bonfire.

Is he truly a farm dog if I scrub the tractor grease off him?

This weekend I have plans to plant 44 trees and shrubs.

Last weekend I went looking for trees to create the living screen I wanted between my house and my neighbor’s. I hit pay dirt at a nursery over the mountain. All their material was 50 percent off, and they were willing to deliver. So I bought trees. Lots of trees. And some shrubs too.

The plants arrived early this week, and I spent some time yesterday moving the smaller material into the field. Tomorrow reinforcements—and heavy machinery—are arriving for the Big Dig.

As an antidote to a bit of a downer blog week, yesterday morning was magical here on the farm. A thick fog surrounded the house as a weak sun tried to fight its way through. It made for a gorgeous scene in every direction, and while out with the dog early I found the hayfield full of magnificent spider webs all pearled up with dew.

Of course no sooner had I snapped this picture than a morning-exuberant puppy—yes, that’s him in the background—tore through the hay, rendering that masterpiece into this:

But it was beautiful while it lasted.

Which calls my attention to one of the most unanticipated benefits I’ve received from raising a dog here on the farm. He’s forced me outside during times when I wouldn’t normally have left the house. I remember last winter, when he was a brand-new puppy getting me out of bed for a middle of the night pee break, we stood in the middle of a snowy, frosty-crunchy field as shooting stars whizzed overhead. And even now, each morning we walk the property after his breakfast, checking on this tree and that flower and making note of all the changes that happened over night. It keeps both of us grounded and deeply in tune with the land we live on. It’s one of the best parts of my day, and a totally unexpected joy.

From the dog bowl:

In other chicken news, last Sunday I had the coop torn apart for cleaning, all open and aired out and all dishes and nest boxes freshly scrubbed and drying in the sun.

I was eating lunch on the back porch, Tuck lying at my feet. Lilac, one of the young hens, grew very interested in my tuna and crackers. I tossed her a few crumbs and she hopped up on the porch right in front of Tuck and ate crackers out of my hand. It was a peaceable kingdom if I’d ever seen one. The rest of the day she stuck very close as I worked on the coop, even as her sister Iris ventured further away. Normally the two hens stay close together. I figured Lilac was just looking for more handout and enjoyed the attention.

But when I put fresh bedding in the coop and hung up the nesting box, Lilac jumped right in the nest box. Within two minutes she hopped out and ran to join Iris. I checked the nest box and sure enough, a beautiful still-warm egg. I am excited to have finally solved the mystery of which hen is laying which colored egg. Fittingly, Lilac’s, on the left, is the more purple of the two:

I was driving home late last night when my headlights flashed on a distinctive shape in the road right in front of my house, strangely near the deer incident of earlier this week. I thought I’d seen a snake, but not just any snake. So I turned around and drove back again, and once I determined the creature was dead, I figured it was worth further investigation.

Allow me to stop right here and assure you I don’t suffer from necromania, a suspicion you’d be forgiven for having if you’ve read this blog for a while and noted its frequently occurring theme of dead animals. My interest in this particular bit of roadkill was strictly scientific: I could tell from the car that this wasn’t an ordinary black snake, which thus far have been the only snakes I’ve seen on the farm.

After I’d parked the car and grabbed a flashlight, my dark, drive-by suspicion was confirmed. A copperhead—the first I’ve seen around this property in the two and a half years I’ve owned it. It was a young one, less than two feet long, and the front half of its body was squashed and the skin flayed. But there was enough nonR-rated material left to make a positive i.d.

The snake could have been crossing the road, or now that night time temperatures are dropping it was perhaps soaking up some heat held in the warm pavement. What’s unusual to me is that so many of my acquaintances are recently reporting copperhead stories, including one man who was bitten by one that got in his house, and another woman whose dog was just bitten on the face. Many people are rather folksily conjecturing that last month’s earthquakes has the snakes out and on the move, but who knows? Seeing this snake tonight, though, was a good reminder for me to remain vigilant around my place, particularly when I am out in the dark.

Early Monday morning I was awoken by Tucker barking a steady, strong alarm downstairs in his crate. I’d never heard him do that before, so I got out of bed and peered out the window into the darkness. There was a car parked off the road right in front of my house, and in its headlights I could see a woman moving around outside. I thought she maybe had wrecked her car so I pulled my boots and coat on over my pajamas, grabbed my Maglite, and stepped outside.

A man emerged from the car and explained that they’d hit a small deer right in front of my house. It hadn’t done much more than break their car’s headlight, but the deer was lying by my mailbox, still alive. They didn’t know what to do with it.

“I have a small knife in the car, but I’m on my way to work and wearing a white shirt,” the man said.

“Just leave it,” I said, hoping that it was injured enough that it would soon die on its own. The couple got back in their car and continued down the dark road.

As I got ready for work I kept checking on the deer, which had enough strength left to flop circles around the quince bush by the mailbox. As I approached it each time, it tried to run but appeared to have one or more broken legs. As it got later it appeared to lose strength, and its eyelids drooped and were closed by the time I left the farm. Unfortunately, it was still breathing.

From work I called the county police to send someone out to shoot the deer, which they did. They also claimed VDOT would be along to collect the body.

Of course VDOT workers have better things to do like stand around staring at potholes, and when I got home from work the deer was still there, now with a fresh bullet hole in its chest and minus its eyeballs and intestines thanks to a flock of gigantic vultures. I couldn’t have this animal rotting in my front yard, so I tied a piece of twine around its neck and began to tug it, revealing a dark blood spot and spent red shell case under the body. It was much heavier than I was expecting–I’d guess at least 65 pounds. In short bursts I dragged the deer all around the perimeter of my property line into the field behind my house. I took the long way to avoid dragging its scent through my yard, trying to avoid enticing my dog to follow the trail.

The creature grew heavier when we hit the thigh-high grass of the hayfield. I had to stop every few feet just to rest and readjust the twine that was cutting into my hands. Each time I started up again the deer’s leathered snout banged against the heels of my boots.

I found a nice hollow several hills away from the house and pointed the sightless body west, the direction it was traveling when it was hit. I tied the twine into a bow around the deer’s neck and walked away. When I got back to the site of the kill even the shell case was gone, carried off by the red-attracted scavengers who still watched from a nearby tree, wondering what I’d done with their dinner.

It was only late that night, lying in bed, that I realized I could have loaded the body into the tractor bucket and saved myself the grisly march. Though the idea of washing blood and guts off the tractor has similarly low appeal.

Three days later what’s stayed with me from this experience, other than the pearly whiteness of the inside of a freshly opened eye socket, is pride in Tuck’s developing guard/alert dog skills. He’s still young and actively figuring out what’s normal versus what’s not, and I am doing a lot of work to try to communicate the level of vigilance and warning I expect from him. For example, he still doesn’t reliably bark when people drive in the driveway, yet will sound off in response to a perfectly normal truck just passing by on the road. He is literally, right now, finding his voice. For him to alert me on Monday so calmly but effectively to a very abnormal scenario on the road in front of the house impresses me, and it bodes well for the partnership we are building.