Sarah Loten shares how she and her family — and their animals — have made it through decades of storms at Drover’s Way Farm in Eastern Ontario and what they have learned along the way
Storms come in many forms on a farm. Often, we think of weather storms of snow, rain, wind, and hail. There can also be storms of disease and storms of circumstance. One doesn’t need to live on a farm to realize that the proverbial ‘perfect storm’ can happen when, seemingly, all difficult sues that could happen occur at the same time. The difference, perhaps, on a farm is that there is a responsibility for many lives, including humans, animals and vegetation. To make matters more complicated, climate change is creating environmental conditions with unprecedented, severe storms. As farmers, we can’t control or manage what the weather or conditions throw at us, but, like all aspects of farming, it is important to create a sustainable and survivable approach to adverse weather conditions.
Living on a farm in our northern climate, I have become acutely aware of the blast and fury of the seasons. With hundreds of animals under my care, as well as the resident wildlife that we encourage on our land, it is a huge responsibility to keep everyone safe and healthy in these storm conditions.
I used to think that mustering all the animals into barns and corrals would give them some level of protection in severe conditions. Sometimes that is true; however, after experiencing many storms, I have realized that it is better to look at how nature manages, how the animals respond and how the land can recover.
Animals have a strong instinct for self-preservation if given options for shelter and food, which may or may
not include human-made structures. In horrible weather, given a choice between a barn and a hedgerow or a
cedar grove, sheep will usually scorn the barn.
The effects of storms tend to be very localized. Even within several fields on one farm, the conditions can vary widely. The ability to respond and quickly adapt to whatever condition is probably the best security we can give our animals and ourselves in adverse conditions.
Quite early on in our farming journey, as a family, we were faced with one of the biggest storms that Eastern
Ontario has ever seen. The ice storm of ’98 came in stealth mode. It was described as a slow-moving hurricane. Slowly but surely, our world became entombed in a thick and heavy layer of ice. We hadn’t been on our farm for many years.
Our children were still very young, as were we. Maybe that was a good thing because we didn’t have any point of reference to be afraid of. We watched in awe as our world irrevocably changed over several days. I remember standing on the porch of our stone house, with a toddler in one hand, holding on to a post to brace against the ice that had formed under the cover of the eaves.
the field, is ice locked until warmer weather.
There was disquiet in the land. All motors had stopped. No electricity marred the night sky. Animals and people couldn’t move from their place. All we could hear was the sound of crashing trees. They cascaded to the ground under the weight of ice, shedding ice like pieces of glass. Branch after branch fell. Tree after tree succumbed. Electric poles and much of the electrical infrastructure twisted and crumpled to the ground. Yet, around us, the ice glistened like diamonds in the moonlight, and the remaining plants and trees were heroic and magnificent in their icy clothes.
The power and the magnitude of this storm left us struck with awe. It was a time of stark and violent beauty. We were a puny force against the storm, but, as farmers, we had to get on with things. We had livestock to feed, children to tend to and work to organize. My strongest memory of that time was the challenge, excitement even, of having to live without power for 2 weeks in the dark and cold Canadian winter. It was a puzzle that we had to solve because all the usual infrastructure that we relied on to take care of ourselves and our animals was gone. We couldn’t go to the stores to pick up supplies because we couldn’t get there. No roads were passable. When we finally did travel, supplies were low or non-existent because trucks couldn’t get through and re-supply the community. We had to be resourceful.
The circumstances could have been overwhelming, but we chose to meet the challenge with excitement and
adventure rather than dismay. It was hard not to grieve the losses of trees and animals, but at our place, we were safe and healthy. We had resources. Our farm included a stone house built in the mid-1800s. It was built and lived in without electricity for close to a hundred years, originally.
Two more weeks were only a small addition to its long history. For the first time in a century, the house was heated with an open (Rumford) stone fireplace. We had an iron cookstove that supplied all our cooking and hot water needs. A creek ran near the house, so we drew buckets of fresh water for our use and the animals.
Our children and animals showed us what was really needed: water, food, light, heat, shelter and some recreation. Our basic needs were taken care of, so we searched for some fun. We had acres and acres of skating rinks, and once we were able to break open a trail on our laneway and road, we walked for miles with the kids on the back of a Shetland pony with no worries about traffic During that time, we had a special birthday party for my son, who was turning 3. Our veterinarian friend had travelled to an emergency near our farm and then chose to come and spend time with us as he couldn’t venture any further. We stoked up the open stone fireplace and toasted marshmallows and chestnuts on an open fire. We cooked a cake on the iron cookstove and fried some steaks and veggies that had thawed and needed to be eaten. Boiled water from the creek was our drink, and we had plenty of time to talk and play by candlelight. I can honestly say we had a wonderful rustic celebration during that icy and dark time.
I think storms have worsened in the last few years. There are always exceptional storms, as we experienced in 1998 — we all tend to remember those extreme weather events. However, the frequency and severity of stormy weather resulting from an unusual combination of events seem to be happening more often. In the Ottawa Valley (of which we are the southwestern end), there have been several dramatic wind events (i.e. tornados, the Derecho) that I have never experienced in my lifetime as frequently as I have experienced in the last few years. March of 2020 gave us another storm to remember.
The whole world felt tumultuous and stormy in the first early spring of the pandemic. It had been a blustery and sodden day. The winds were whipping across the field, throwing down trees, twisting fences and ripping off sheets of metal from our outbuildings. These human vestiges of the landscape are but flimsy barriers to the power of wind and storm. Our sheep had scuttled into the hedgerows to avoid being blown off their feet. Like woolly tumbleweed, they were blown unwillingly across the field, scattered away from the flock. (nothing is more distressing to a sheep than being separated from their flock.) They tried to bunker into tight groups, blanketing the soil and each other under bushy vegetation to stay warm and dry.
The storm had spent most of its fury when I went to battle against the gusts of wind, looking for the livestock
guardian dogs who will remain protectively with the flock through the most difficult of conditions. It was my turn to take care of them, ensuring they were safe, warm, and fed.
I revelled in the energy of the raw, cleansed air. Never had I appreciated the quality of the air, the bracing aliveness and the privilege. We are facing hard times as a people, as a land, like many across the world. A viral storm, that steals air, has become part of the landscape and lives of many.
While experiencing a serious storm and its aftermath, there can be a deep sense of unsafety and isolation. We
search for stories in our past to help us understand. We are afraid of what the future will bring, and it is hard not to catastrophize.
As I walked towards our higher land, I scanned fields that have seen the birth of thousands of lambs over the
years. My head bent low, tucked inside my hood, gave me scant protection against the hard spatters of rain. It was hard to believe that these fields would be green soon and gambolling new lambs would populate these fields once again. I know life always has a way of continuing, despite whatever storm or plague has thrown its weight around.
I lifted my head quickly to take stock of my exact location. As I scanned the tumultuous horizon, there was a scene that took my breath away: Up on the highest ridge of our farm, the guardian sheepdogs lined themselves up in a strategic position to scan the fields around them. Their backs towards the stark black limbs of the leafle’s bush, and their fur whipped against the wind. Alternating sun and cloud shadows illuminated the landscape. These huge dogs had placed themselves across the ridge to face the worst winds of the storm. Lying down, heads up, vigilant, expectant, calm, they waited.
Summer storms are a frequent occurrence in Eastern Ontario. In fact, they are generally welcomed by farmers
because they bring much-needed rain for good pasture and crops. That said, the rain can come at a cost. The fury and violence of summer weather can be shocking and damaging. Like most things in life, we must take the good with the bad, appreciate the gifts but also be wary of the risks.
A lot of summer weather descends on us with little warning. Although, thanks to modern technology, some
warning is given through weather reporting. All farmers regularly follow these sites and respect the accompanying information and warnings. We are vigilant and try to prepare for eventualities which could include high winds, hail, lightning, and other risks. That does not mean that we live in fear of what will come because, inevitably, summer storms will come. It is our job to respond with responsibility and safety. We plant crops with seed varieties developed to withstand wind. We have backup power sources to pump water if power is lost since animals need considerable amounts of water in the summer. We move animals to places where they won’t get hurt by flying or falling debris. We get ourselves to shelter as storms approach, seeking protection from lightning and wind.
Then, after the fury is spent, we calmly assess the damage and get to work, cleaning up whatever damage has been done. If the storm was particularly bad, we seek neighbours and friends and help each other out, as needed. That is the way things have always been done.
It was the summer of 2021 and I was walking with our border collies to check sheep at the very back of our farm. The land was very dry in the late summer heat. The sheep had moved back to the lowest treelined pastures, where some green grass remained. My oldest border collie was antsy, not focusing on the job at hand. I knew this was a sure sign that a storm was coming even though the sky was blue and the sun was shining through the heavy humid air. The sheep were serene, woolly shapes spread out over the expanse of pasture. They raised their heads as we came closer, always vigilant of what was changing in their environment, but they went back to grazing. They were alert but calm. Much can be learned from our animals.
As I turned to go back to the farmstead, I heard the first rumbles of thunder. The dog glued herself to my leg. She knew what was coming. Suddenly, the sky turned a dark colour at the western horizon, and the wind was restless and serious. I picked up my pace, thinking I had lots of time to get back. Quickly, the sky grew very dark, bruised opaque purple. Lightening forked, and the thunder sounded deep and guttural. I didn’t have time to get back, and I was vulnerable out in an open field. I decided to run for a trailer we had parked in one of our back pastures, near a pond, using it for camping on more delightful summer days.
As I slammed the door, the wind hit us (the dogs come in with me) with full force. The trailer rocked and vibrated. Trees clashed and crashed around us. It sounded like rocks were being hurled at the siding. Later, I learned that apples were being flung from the nearby orchard field. I tried calling for someone on my phone, but I couldn’t hear above the noise. Besides, what could anyone do for me at that point? I was on my own, and I had to stay safe and calm so that I could respond properly. Panic is not helpful as it can make us behave impulsively rather than carefully.
My dogs dove under the table in the trailer, and I decided to join them. I figured my biggest threat was a tree
crashing through the roof. At least we would have an extra layer of protection from the hard tabletop, held up by a central metal post. The sheer chaos and noise outside felt threatening, but I had to figure out a way to stay calm. I sang some songs. I stroked the dogs. I joked with them about having a party under the table! I consciously tried to relax my muscles while sitting in such a cramped spot. Then, I waited until the storm passed. They always do.
When I emerged an hour later, I looked around at many fallen trees in paths of destruction. Jagged marks of lightning were burnt into mature pasture grasses. The surrounding fruit trees had lost most of their apples.
The term windfall had taken on a new level of meaning. However, despite the destruction, many grasses and bushes seemed more vigorous, sparkling with the nutritious rain. The vegetation had been extremely thirsty under the late summer sun. Renewed growth was something to be grateful for.
I walked back to the farmstead as the sheep and dogs emerged from the hedgerows. They were fine, although the dogs looked more sheepish than the sheep! They had been afraid, although as livestock guardian dogs, they knew that their job was to protect and stay with the sheep. As I got closer to the house, I noticed an old dug well with ferns surrounding it as a lacy collar. The fronds, growing out of the damp rock-lined wall, glistened in the sunlight. This little oasis had been laid bare by a huge fallen tree during the storm. I knew about this dug well, carefully covered by oak planks, roots and vines, but I had forgotten about it until exposed by the storm. The old well was beautiful. I knew this was something else to take care of because an
open well is dangerous. But at that moment, as I made my way through the destruction, I took some time to enjoy the small scene of beauty that had been revealed in the aftermath of the storm.
