The morning breakfast was a typical farm meal – no gourmet cooking here, but practical, healthy and filling. We were joined by one other couple – a 60ish pair from Long Island - and by Carolyn, the innkeeper. That’s the first time I can remember when the innkeeper was at the table. It was an interesting conversation. Usually, at a B&B breakfast, the guests tell where they’re from, what they’ve done since they arrived, and what they’re planning for the day. We learned that the other couple were winding up a two-week loop of the upstate New York area and were headed back to their home on Long Island. The woman was small and thin with, I’m sure, a standing weekly hair appointment, and her husband was taller, well groomed, with a professionally pleasant face.
The discussion then turned to the dairy, as we asked our questions about the operation. Carolyn’s husband Jim came in briefly and introduced himself. Jim holds a position at the national level in an organization for American dairy farms, so he has frequent out-of-town trips to attend meetings. Jim and all four of his sons have degrees from Cornell University, either in Dairy Science or Agricultural Economics. Running a dairy this size is a major business.
I didn’t spent much time in conversation with the other couple at the breakfast table, but I do remember one story the woman told. She said she and her husband and another couple had been traveling together and had stopped late one evening to inquire at a B&B as to whether they had a room available. There were two rooms remaining. One of them had a private bathroom in the room, and the other had a shared one down the hall. The shared bath was fine with both husbands, but the wives both wanted the private bath. So the couples split up – the women took the room with the private bath and the men took the other. In the morning, at breakfast, the woman said they got “funny looks” from the other guests. She was in the dark about the reason until later that morning, when they were on the road again. She said, “Then I figured it out. They must have thought we were PERVERTS!”
I worked hard to keep a neutral expression on my face, but I didn’t dare look at Art!
I asked if we could have a tour of the farm after breakfast, and Carolyn offered to show us around. The other couple said no thanks. Art and I followed Carolyn out to the barns.
The farm’s brochure says:
The Kings-Ransom Farm operation milks its cows three times per day with shifts beginning at 4:00 am, 12:00 noon and 8:00 pm. The milking parlor has four stalls on each side and is considered small for a herd this size [260 at this location and 150 at another nearby, operated by son Jan]. Each milking takes about 5 hours with additional time for set-up and clean-up. The milk is cooled and stored in a 2,500 gallon tank for marketing by the Dairylea Cooperative. The H.P. Hood Company usually receives the milk at its Agawa, MA fluid milk bottling plant for distribution throughout southern New England. This year the combined operations at Kings-Ransom and Colebrook Dairy [the second location] will produce approximately ONE MILLION gallons of milk.
Farm records are computerized for both cows (including production and management information) and finances.
As usual, I asked lots of questions, which Carolyn answered in a friendly, matter-of-fact way. This is what I learned, on that morning and since then.
Dairy cows have a useful productive life of six years. After that, they are sold.
Animals are maintained in the environment of a “cement grazing” operation, where the cows stay in barns their entire lives and never graze in a field.
A large majority of dairy cows are artificially inseminated. This is seen as an advantage because it facilitates rapid genetic improvement by allowing use of only the top bulls. Some bulls have sired more than 100,000 offspring via artificial insemination. The bull and cow never get together. They are matched carefully, though, to breed for milk quantity and conformation of calves. Records are kept for all breedings.
The happier the cows, the more milk they produce. Care is taken to provide them with a comfortable environment – clean bedding straw, clean water, nutritious food in a balanced ration of silage and forage.
Definitions from the farm brochure:
Balanced ration: Food for animals in the right daily mixtures and amounts to include all the required nutrients.
Silage – Corn, grass, alfalfa, or other plants which are chopped and packed tightly in a silo or other structure. They then ferment due to the production of lactic acid by bacteria.
Forage – Animal feed that consists of entire plants which are harvested (hay, silage). Forages provide fiber and nutrients which are essential to the diet of cows.
Nutrient management – Managing nutrients entering (feed, fertilizer, legume nitrogen) and leaving (crops, milk, meat) the farm system so that crops needs are met with manure and other nutrients as needed.
Carolyn took us to the main barn. Several hundred black and white cows lived there, each with its own small pen. Long troughs for food and water provided an efficient way to feed the animals. Each cow had an identification tag in its ear. When a cow in Washington State tested positive for mad cow disease in December of 2003, I remembered these tags. Scientifically managed and artificially inseminated, identification is much simpler than any manual method could be.
I looked at all those cows, remembering that Carolyn had said the happier they are, the more milk they give. Apparent these cows were all happy. I wondered how that could be. They had very little space, certainly no privacy, and no one to come by and give them a few kind worlds and a scratch behind the ears. I’m a cat person, and I had to restrain myself from spending a few affectionate moments with a cow or two.
In the milking parlor, cows waited in line for a milking position. Guided into a spot by a laborer, milking cups were attached to each teat. I asked Carolyn if the process was uncomfortable for the cow. No, she said, being milked was a relief to them. I don’t understand the concept myself. But I do have a friend at work who pumps breast milk for her daughter a couple of times a day. I can remember her expressing the same relief when she’d return from her “milking”.
Carolyn led us to the small barn where cows ready to give birth are kept so that they can be watched and assistance can be given them if necessary. I noticed one cow lying in the straw, straining. We were going to move on, but all of a sudden I saw a couple of little hooves emerging from the cow. “Look,” I said, “the calf’s hooves.” Carolyn glanced over and then said I was right. We watched for a few minutes. When the cow strained, the hooves would emerge just a bit, and when she relaxed, the hooves would nearly disappear inside the cow. Carolyn said, “Just a minute. I’m going to find someone to give her some help.” She walked toward another barn.
I asked Art if he had the camera; he said it was in the car, and did I want it? I said yes, and he left. I stood by the fence, or on it, for the next ten minutes, as Carolyn returned with a young worker and the calf was delivered. Once the legs emerged, the birth was fairly quick. By the time Art got back from the car with the camera, there was a slippery newborn calf lying in the straw, and the cow was giving it a rubdown with her tongue. It’s still amazing to me that animals know just what to do when their young are born. I took half a dozen pictures, but they don’t do justice to the wonder I saw in one straw-filled pen on that farm full of cows.
I asked what would happen to the calf. Carolyn said that in a half hour or so it would be taken away to be cared for and raised. “The calf will never see its mother again?” “No.” “That must be hard on the calf and its mother.” “No. They cry for each other for about half an hour, and then they forget.”
I doubt it. It’s been four months since I saw the birth of that calf, and how its mother washed it clean in the first few minutes of its life, and I still think of the two of them, separated.
Carolyn talked about the business of farming. Kings Ransom owns or leases enough acreage to raise most of the grain needed to feed its cattle. I saw large farm equipment coming and going, driven by brown-skinned young men, who waved as they passed. Carolyn said their laborers came from Mexico, that they were good workers. From what I saw, dairy farming is hard work. It may be another of those cases where we decry the use of foreign labor, but we do not have anyone else who is willing to do the work. Even on this clean, well run farm, I can’t imagine either of my sons working as a laborer for more than a few days.
I thanked Carolyn very much for taking her time to show us the farm operation. I would like to have stayed longer, learning and watching. Carolyn said that guests’ reactions vary. The woman with whom we’d had breakfast had been hesitant to get out of her car in the driveway when she saw that the B&B was actually part of a farm. Carolyn said, “I always try to confirm with guests, when they call to make reservations, that they know we’re on a dairy farm. And that there is a smell.” I told her that being guests at the Kings Ransom B&B had exceeded my expectations, and that we would return the next time we visited Laura.
Art and I had decided to do a volkssmarch in Saratoga Springs. Both events listed started at the Hilton Hotel, coincidentally just across the street from the Paradiso, the restaurant where we’d eaten the night before. The low-key-elegance hotel lobby was nearly empty as we picked up the route instructions.
In the city park we stopped at a gazebo honoring Saratoga Springs veterans from multiple wars, clear back to the War of 1812. The walk passed by the Saratoga racetrack, which had just concluded its racing season. It’s been 30 years since I’ve attended a horserace; on this day it sounded interesting, and I wish we’d been there during racing season. I knew, though, that we’d have paid considerably more for our night at the B&B. We continued along blocks of houses built in the late 1880s, many of which were B&Bs or apartment houses advertising vacancies.
The walking route then took us through the modern downtown area. I was tempted to stop at Borders Books. I always feel that way when I see a bookstore. I remember once, years ago, I had a conversation with Sam, a fellow I was dating. I said that if I found out I had only two hours to live, I’d want to spend it in a bookstore. He said, “I’d want to spend it in the sack.” I still smile when I think about that!
On the west side of downtown, the route entered the grounds of Skidmore College. When I was growing up I’d heard of Skidmore as an expensive girls’ school. Now it is coed. Times have changed. The walk back to town was along Broadway – this one was a broad street with deep lawns and elegant old houses, well maintained and obviously still inhabited by moneyed people. As we walked by, an expensively dressed young woman emerged from a Lexus.
After five miles, I felt the sudden need to eat. I tend to hypoglycemia, so I notice the symptoms and try to eat and drink something soon after. I remembered a little crepes restaurant we’d seen on our walk through town. By this time Art was getting grumpy. I suspect for him, though, it was sore hips rather than hunger. I asked him where he wanted to eat and he said, “I don’t care. I’m not hungry.” I said, “Well, I need to eat, so let’s go back to that Ravenous place.”
We sat down at a corner table in the little restaurant, nearly empty at 3pm except for us. The vegetable and cheese crepes were exactly what we needed – flavorful but not too filling. By the time we finished, I felt fine again, and Art’s mood had improved.
We finished our walk back at the Hilton, rumpled and tired. By this time the lobby was well populated with dressed-up guests, and we felt decidedly conspicuous. We wanted to work out our trip back to Smugglers Notch, but we decided to open the map on the trunk lid of the car rather than on an immaculate glass coffee table in the hotel lobby.
Poring over the map, we discussed driving back the way we’d come. We knew it would take four hours or so. The alternative was to drive north for two hours on Interstate 87 to Port Kent and then take a ferry across Lake Champlain to Burlington. I’d checked the ferry schedule; the last one left at 7:40, so we’d have time.
As we conversed, a man approached his car, parked next to ours in the Hilton lot. “Are you lost?” We said no, just trying to decide how to get back to upstate Vermont. “If you have the time, and an adventurous spirit, I’d recommend the ferry. It’s a pretty drive up the interstate, and the ferry ride is beautiful. When you disembark in Burlington, you’ll drive right through the center of town. There’s a no-cars area where you can walk and shop and find lots of little places to eat.” We thanked him and said that’s what we would do.
I drove, as usual. Art was asleep within fifteen minutes, and I savored a long, leisurely, solitary drive through the rolling hills of the Adirondack Mountains – an old range, worn down by eons of erosion – so different from the Cascades and the Olympics in Washington State.
Art woke up as I reached the offramp for Port Kent. The road was straight for three miles or so, then wound down a hill and ended suddenly at a short ferry dock on the eastern shore of Lake Champlain. This abrupt road ending reminded me of the ferry dock at our crossing of the River Shannon in Ireland back in 1999. We were second in line. There was no ferry in sight, and no one in the ticket booth. The sign said the next crossing was 7:40. It was 6:45. The small souvenir and snack shop was open; I bought a bag of chips and a Hershey bar. Art was a bit grouchy again, so I stayed quiet until he reclined the seat and closed his eyes. The ticket taker returned to the booth – she’d had to drive a sick coworker home – and I paid our fare.
As night came on, I could see lights seven miles away on the other side of the lake – most likely Burlington. Eventually a set of moving lights approached, and then I could see the ferry. I was expecting a double-decker ferry like those that cross the Puget Sound. This one was much smaller, flat like a barge, made of metal like the ferry in Ireland. I wondered if there was a factory somewhere, turning out ferryboats to cross small bodies of water.
The crossing was uneventful. The air temperature was in the low 60s, with a brisk wind but no rough water. No city lights obscured the stars. We put on sweatshirts and spent some time at the bow, watching the far shore. The 45-minute ride was a relaxing break from the driving and activity of the day.
We drove through Burlington. It was Friday night, and the downtown streets were full of students from the University of Vermont enjoying the first part of their weekend. We decided not to stop, preferring instead to find our way back to Smugglers Notch by way of the web of roads in and around the city. I was surprised that the back-roads drive to our condo took less than an hour. From the south, where we’d traveled from earlier in the week, the area seemed quite remote, but from Burlington, to the west, we were just outside the suburbs.
I mentioned to Art that we might think about returning to explore Burlington the next day – I’d heard from a couple of people that it was a good place to wander around – but I knew we wouldn’t. Our week at Smugglers Notch was nearly over, and we were beginning to anticipate the second phase of our vacation.
I was right, too. We spent most of Saturday doing laundry, watching TV and reading. We ventured out in the early afternoon for lunch at Dinner Dunn, a restaurant in Jeffersonville that was full of locals. We planned to attend the Underhill AA meeting in the evening, so we decided to find the place first during daylight hours. Of course, following directions when the sun is out is way easier than in darkness, so we located the meeting place without any trouble. It would be easy to find at night, now that we knew where it was.
I’d scouted for meetings in the area before we left Washington. On two nights there was a meeting both in Underhill and in a place called Maple Leaf Farm. My experience is that, usually, when there are two meetings close by, especially in a rural community, there was a falling out at some point in the past, a meeting broke apart, and a second location was established. In this case, I was mistaken. I’d learned at the Jeffersonville meeting on Monday that Maple Leaf Farm was a treatment center. So a couple of times a week, an AA meeting was scheduled there, and people from the community would join the treatment center clients. It’s a good way for people in treatment to get an idea of what AA will be like “on the outside”.
We left Underhill to see if we could find Maple Leaf Farm. The sign directed us up an ascending gravel road. After a couple of miles we came to the treatment center on the left, where we turned around. As we started back down the hill, we came upon a hitchhiker. To my astonishment, Art slowed down. In all of our years together, neither of us has ever picked anyone up. I said, “Why are you doing this?” Art responded, “We’re near the treatment center. It seems like the right thing to do.”
He opened the back door and the man got in. He was, I’d say, in his 30s, with longish hair, a flannel shirt and jeans. “Thanks,” he said. The car filled with alcohol fumes. As a nondrinker, I’m sensitive to the smell of alcohol. I wondered how the guy could still be on his feet. How ironic, I thought, that we picked him up so close to the treatment center. Was he escaping?
The fellow was talkative. We reached the main road and he directed us to the right. He asked us where we were from and, when we told him, he replied, “You have some beautiful country. But there’s nothing prettier than here in Vermont. Come back tomorrow with a pair of binoculars. Go back up that road you picked me up on. Quarter of a mile further along, there’s a parking area and a guardrail. Look across the valley. It don’t get prettier than that, and it’s something tourists don’t see.”
We dropped him off a few miles later. He was still chatting as he got out of the car and closed the door. He thanked us and turned up a side road. As we drove away, I opened the window. “Man,” I said, “that was some smell.” Art responded, “Well, they don’t have to stay at the treatment center if they don’t want to.”
After dinner we went back to the meeting in Underhill. There had been a picnic on the grounds in the afternoon – we’d noticed that when we scoped the place earlier – and the partiers appeared to be moving from the picnic into the meeting. There were about 40 of them, in this little town, and they all knew each other. We sat quietly through the meeting. Everywhere we’ve been we find the same community of recovery, people caring about each other, teasing, commiserating, welcoming newcomers. I thought, again, that it might be a good thing for us to spend a year in this part of the country. The people lived in a rural area, but they were not simple. Some were local small farmers, some college students from Burlington, some merchants. All of them living here by choice, attending this meeting as part of their everyday life. We have a similar community in Washington, of course, but it’s especially good to see it when we’re out of town.
We did our final loads of laundry – I separated the colors carefully --when we got back to the condo. I turned on the news to check the progress of Hurricane Isabel. It was larger, and moving closer to the coast.
As I waited for laundry to finish, I picked up the last unread coffee table book - a series of articles about Vermont farm women. I scanned the first few with idle curiosity. Then I read one about a woman who keeps a few family cows. This one I reread. She talked about how her cows are cared for. They graze in pastureland, with supplements given to them in the evenings. They produce enough milk for her family and a few neighbors. They remain on her farm even when past their milk-yielding prime. The woman had a sense of gratitude for the bounty around her, including the cows.
What a contrasting view, I thought, from the well run dairy farm in Saratoga Springs. I wished we could all buy the dairy products we need from family farms. But then, I realized, there wouldn’t be enough for everyone. The commercial dairy operations are a necessity to meet the needs of all of us. I considered whether I would be willing to go without milk and cheese and yogurt and ice cream except for what I could buy from small farms. I decided I wouldn’t. From where I live, I’d have to drive for nearly an hour, and the products would cost more than what I can pick up in the grocery store, not to mention the expense of gas and wear and tear on the car to get me there. So the commercial dairy operations are a necessity in our world. I decided I shouldn’t be judging the virtues and faults of concrete grazing. In the end, I participate.