It was a great year for Sharon Valley Shepherds at the 2011 New York State Sheep and Wool Festival in Rhinebeck.  The breezy fall day was perfect for all those knitters to model their latest creations: colorful sweaters, fingerless gloves, and feather-light lacey shawls.  I respect and admire the knitter who created an absolutely gorgeous jumper for a four-year old girl I saw, complete with matching hand-knit tights.

For many fairgoers, the biggest news of the weekend was the disappearance of the beloved chicken potpie vendor.  Some wool fanatics, who shall remain nameless, had been known to wait in line for over an hour for one of his delicious pies.  For our family though, the news was much happier.  The freshly shorn fall fleece of our lovely two-and-a-half-year old ewe Tucker won “Primitive Fleece Champion.”  In addition to a blue first-place ribbon, we received a very big purple champion ribbon.  Her spring fleece took third prize.  This year’s show exhibited 683 fleece.  (The show awards prices in three categories of wool:  white, natural colored, and primitive. In the first two groups there are prizes for fine, medium, and long wool; in the primitive class, all fleece compete together.  A grand champion is selected from those seven first-place winners.)

On Friday I had dropped off six fleeces for show and sale.  Given Tucker’s second place win last year, I raised the prices.  Over the last few years I have learned how to prepare the fleece for competition, but pricing still remains a mystery to me.  Some hand-spinning friends complain that the Rhinebeck prices are too high.  I wasn’t sure how far I could push the envelope, so I was very pleased that all six fleeces sold on Saturday.

What I do know about pricing is this: what we all ask for our nicest fleece does not come close to covering the cost of feeding, caring for, and shearing a ewe.  I am fortunate that we shear twice a year; each ewe does double duty toward earning her keep.  In the last five years, I have come to appreciate the work of farmers and handcrafters who demand what seem to many to be unreasonably high prices for their vegetables, organic milk, hand-felted purses, hooked rugs, woven scarves and hand-knit mittens.  It is nearly impossible to produce these wares in a volume that compensates the creator justly.

 I only show the fleece of my three youngest girls, who have wool far superior to that of my older flock members.  Tucker, Matilda, and Princess Leia all share very long wavy fleece of a subtly variegated color.  Each shearing, or clip, is different, depending on the season; the fall wool tends to be the best, as summer is a far less stressful time for animals than the winter.  All that green grass must have something to do with it.  And the wool of all three girls continues to lighten as they age.  Tucker’s has less brown than her sister Matilda’s and her cousin Princess Leia’s.  Her wool glistens in its shadings; it almost sparkles when the light hits it a certain way.  And now shorn, she exhibits fewer dark specks than the others.  Tucker’s fleece is ever so slightly longer.  It is in a word: amazing.   Her late mother, Peep, was a lovely light reddish-brown, classified as fawn in Shetland terminology, and her full-blooded Shetland father, dark brown.  He certainly improved the flock’s genes.

 The fleece is scored on a scale of 1 to 5 for six different qualities:  uniformity, density, handle, crimp, length, and weight.  Here is a picture of one of the score labels.

 There is great debate among Shetland breeders as to what is “classic” Shetland, what is original, and what has developed over the centuries.  Our fleeces tend toward the “primitive,” that is with a very long staple (length) and wavier rather than tightly crimped.  Hand spinners have their preferences too.  Our efforts were certainly boosted by the flock’s cleanliness.  We keep the fields clear of burrs, thistles, and other enemies of wool.  I use only straw, no wood shavings, as bedding; we are careful to feed hay so that it does not fall onto the sheep or otherwise embed itself in the wool.

 After discovering our win, I spent Saturday comparing fleeces, watching the bred-ewe auction, and viewing the sheep show.  I made my way through all the vendor buildings, touching wool, mohair, the coolest felted hats, and hand-dyed yarns.  (I am not allowed to purchase any more materials, given our unending supply at home.)  I ran into friends from home, our sheep shearer, Donald, and, while waiting in line for delicious artichokes, made new friends, who recognized me as a native Pittsburgher after a brief conversation!

On Sunday I returned with the boys, a fall ritual we never miss– in the car they plan what they will select for lunch.  They still enjoy the usual kids’ festival activities.  Our family favorite is watching the Frisbee dogs.  We watched the natural-colored sheep show and were amazed at how the judge consistently favored the large meat breeds over the small wool breeds like the Icelandics and the Shetlands.  It would be nice if the show added a separate class for these traditional wool breeds, as the fleece show does.  When you get down to it, it is like comparing apples and oranges.

 For her part, Tucker is unmoved by her new status as champion.  She continues to mingle with the mere mortal sheep of our flock and eat the same grass as the rest!  She is a naturally skittish girl, but she willingly takes a treat from my hand, before scampering off.   Starting this week Tucker, Matilda, and Princess Leia have been enjoying some grain in the evening, which strengthens and prepares them for breeding.  In early November it is their turn to take a road trip – to meet a handsome ram.  We hope they pass those excellent fleece genes on to the next generation!

]]> http://baablog.wordpress.com/2011/10/21/yes-sir-yes-sir-six-bags-full-rhinebeck-2011/feed/ 6 baablog IMG_4377 IMG_4379 IMG_4374 IMG_4385 IMG_4390 IMG_4406 http://baablog.wordpress.com/2011/10/17/rainbows-beaches-and-goodbye-to-iceland/ http://baablog.wordpress.com/2011/10/17/rainbows-beaches-and-goodbye-to-iceland/#comments Mon, 17 Oct 2011 17:13:32 +0000 baablog http://baablog.wordpress.com/?p=324 ]]> Click to view slideshow.My week in Iceland concluded with two more rides. The first one led us through trails at the base of the mountains north of Hvergerdi, through “the forest,” and around geothermal springs. We returned to the farm and were able to ride around the long, oval track, on which the Icelanders work their horses.  I  had been hoping we would have the uniquely Icelandic opportunity to tölt in formation around the track.  A staff member patiently photographed us, as we practiced riding the appropriate distance apart, slowing and speeding up at the right time at each curve, so everyone was visible.

The  last day treated us with an incredible, longer adventure, which began on the black sands of the beach near the port of Thorlákshöfn and headed east toward the mouth of the river Ölfus.

I had long dreamed of riding on such a beach, but this was not a scene from the Black Stallion.  Just as the trailer that had dropped us off pulled away, Geert said, “Oh no.” Our hearts all sank. He was concerned that the tide was too high, making the passable area of the beach too narrow and the surf too rough.  But this was nothing – we survived the réttir, we were fine!  The waves were indeed crashing on the beach and did I mention that it was raining again and incredibly windy? But I did not care: I was riding on a beautiful volcanic sand beach on the northern Atlantic.  We walked on for 6 km, before we turned and headed over the dunes; the horses tired, as their hooves sank into the wet, soft sand.

In the distance Geert pointed out the volcanos Hekla and Eyjafjallajökull, the one that vexed European air traffic in the spring of 2010. His plan was to ride along the banks of the river and then cross – the quickest most direct way back to the farm. However, we found the two likely crossing points impassable, due to the recent heavy rains. (The Ölfus has the strongest flow of any river in Iceland.)  The sandbars, which normally create a pathway, were under water. The sticks that mark a safe passage were also submerged. The ride across this very wide river, which normally takes about twenty minutes, would be more of a swim today, a much more dangerous prospect than Geert would risk with tourists, no matter how intrepid.  So we took the long way home along roads and past many small farms. By noon the skies cleared and we were able to stop to eat our lunch with the horses tethered to a farmer’s fence. Horses in the pasture across the road looked over at us munching the delicious sandwiches and cookies we had stowed in our saddle bags.  We four riders were tired, but sad, as we knew that this was our last ride.  And of course, the weather would improve – for our last hour of tölting!

I rode my favorite horse of the week that day – Merkur, a compact, black, fabulously smooth gelding. He was a tölting machine, who carried himself so proudly and eagerly. His walk was the slowest tölt imaginable. I would have loved to sneak him into my suitcase the next day.

On both these last two rides we saw rainbows – rainbows everywhere we turned. They proved a fitting end to a fabulous adventure, as I prepared to say goodbye to Geert, Daniela, Karin, Charlotte, and of course, Goliath, Frida, and Merkur.

My recent experiences in Iceland make me wonder about all of the places around the world that continue the practice of transhumance (a word I just learned, referring to the seasonal movement of animals to new grazing areas) and the tradition of rounding up grazing animals before winter.  What societies still graze their animals communally; still celebrate the harvest; still have shepherds?  Randy and I have taken shelter from the monsoon with nomadic Yak herders in Bhutan.  I would love to see the cattle drive in the western United States; the herding of sheep on Sardinia, the cows grazing in the Alps, or a sheep station in Australia.  Iceland is not unique in its autumn ritual, but I am sure these customs are endangered everywhere, as animals are raised industrially and human occupation encroaches on open space.  Most cultures have replaced horses with motorized vehicles for roundup and transport.  Based on what I saw in September, I feel confident that the réttir will continue for many years to come in Iceland, a country that seems to blend so seamlessly the old and new.

We awoke on the second day of the roundup to absolutely abysmal weather: rain, strong wind, and heavy fog.   Suddenly we realized how fortunate we had been the day before.  We also knew that in addition to the changed atmospheric conditions, the terrain would also be more challenging.

The plan was to set off from the same spot as on Saturday, but to head east up the mountain through the geothermal drilling area, over the plain, and down the mountain into the Hvergerdi valley.  It sounded daunting, but Geert assured us that the area to be covered was actually smaller than the vastness we traversed the day before.

We were among the first to arrive and left the horses in the trailer.  Sitting in the truck, we debated whether we had enough clothes on.  The ubiquitous orange rain pants and slickers were just the beginning: underneath I had woolen long johns and fleece-lined riding pants.  On top two base layers beneath a heavy wool sweater and a wind- and rainproof jacket.  A woolen gaiter protected my neck and, luckily, my warmest waterproof gloves were dry and ready.  Because we would be walking part of the day, good walking/riding boots were essential.  Rubber boots, the normal attire for an Icelandic horse trek, do not help when you have to go up and down rocky hillsides.

The heavy fog obscured the geothermal plant, less than 200 yards away.  The wind roared ferociously.  Icelandic weather is notoriously variable.  It can be sunny to the east, rainy and gray to the west.  One can set out in the morning with five layers on and return home in the afternoon with two.  The conditions can literally change within minutes.

I admit that I approached the day with trepidation.  We had driven by the hillsides we would have to get down at the end of the roundup numerous times and I just couldn’t imagine how we could get down safely.  Emotions changed quickly as we heard that the entire day’s activities were in jeopardy.  Even the Icelanders were concerned that the weather might be too bad to risk it.  They would make a decision by 9am.  Word soon came that the community authorities had closed the mountain where the drilling takes place.  The visibility was nearly zero.

The half hour of waiting turned out to be a highlight of the weekend and a real window into Icelandic culture.  There was a small barn, attached to the rett, and some of the farmers had put their horses there.  It was one open room with troughs along two sides.  We went in seeking shelter from the elements and found about twenty horses wandering in and out.  A few farmers were getting ready for the day.  The amazing thing to us foreign riders was the ease with which the Icelanders moved among their horses.  People leaned against the untethered horses, who happily munched on hay.  The horses were calm and their people relaxed.  Farmers sang, joked, and laughed.

Conferences with the mountain king in his truck continued.  He drove up the mountain and returned with the news that the visibility was much better at the top.  If we could get all the horses trailered up, we could begin there.  There were never many sheep to be found on the eastern slope of the mountain anyway, they claimed, so perhaps the day was not lost.

And so we drove back to the highway and back toward Hvergerdi, but turned off onto a restricted road at the summit of the mountain.  We unloaded the horses and tried in vain to shield ourselves from the wind.  My photographs cannot convey the force and sound of the gusts.  But look for the blowing manes.  To me the intensity rivaled the winds experienced in the recent Tropical Storm Irene, which dumped so much rain on New England two weeks prior.  The rain here was intermittent, but cold, and the drops pelted us in the face.  Sadly, we would spend the rest of the day heading east, into the wind and rain.

We set off in a large group, another highlight of the day.  The gravel road again accented the sound of the horses’ hooves, as we tölted into the storm.  The horses seemed particularly spirited and willing.  Again, our group took one flank of the plain, peeling off to the right, toward Highway 1, as the majority of Icelanders headed over some hills to the north.  We crossed a shallow river and saw only one tired sheep, who was unwilling to move.  Had it been near the end of the roundup, Geert would have hoisted that sheep on to the horse, in front of his saddle and carried him down, but the day had just begun.  We hoped that the sheep would follow or survive to be found when the cowboys swept through again in a couple of weeks.

I saw few sheep that day, as we headed under more high-tension wires and up a steep hill.  I was surprised to find myself on the edge of a vast plateau.  Again, we did the waiting game, mounting and dismounting; but in contrast to the day before, we were cold and uncomfortable.  We waited for what seemed an eternity for the riders to appear on our left, which would be our signal to head on.  We came together to confer on how best to get down – for we knew that the rett was far below in the valley, but the fog and clouds obscured the view much of the time.  From the top of an unfamiliar hill, it is nearly impossible to judge how to best get down the steep slope.  And although we were to hold our places in line, when we finally did descend, four of us followed one other, leading our horses down the steep grade.  The ground was very soft.  Scree (small, loose stones) covered the moist soil.  Icelandic horses are trained to follow; at home we were all taught to lead our horses standing to their side.

Goliath and I traversed the hill; back and forth, I tried to figure out where I should be, and how far in front.  He is large for an Icelandic horse and his steps were much bigger than mine.  My knees much prefer hiking uphill to down.  I stepped more gingerly, Goliath more confidently.  But somehow we managed to get down quickly and safely. He didn’t step on my feet and I didn’t slip and fall underneath him.  We reached the tall grass with relief – and he munched happily, while I caught my breath.  I confess – it was shorter and less harrowing than I had imagined.  We mounted and rode a short distance, dismounted and walked again, looking for a place to get over the next hill.   Soon we were nearly all the way down and followed the others through a small but steep-banked stream.  They eagerly cantered up a needle-narrow path and around a bend.  One more small hillock and there was the pen.

We stopped and formed a line.  Sheep seemed to be coming toward us from all points ahead, both north and east, also having just navigated steep Icelandic mountainsides.  We did our job well as the other cowboys drove them toward the pen.  But some clever sheep coming from the east saw their chance to go up the western slope instead of turning around the corner toward the opening of the pen.  We watched in amazement as some of the Icelanders ran up the hillside to get them down.  It is hard to beat a sheep uphill, whether on foot or on horseback!

Those sheep were quickly persuaded to turn around toward the pen, but soon after they were corralled, some other wooly friends escaped through the gate, which inexplicably had been left opened.  About thirty sheep took off for the same eastern slope and a mad chase ensued – the sheep clearly had the upper hand: three horses returned without their riders.  This time it took a bit longer, but the fastest climbing cowboys somehow managed to keep them from going over the hill to freedom.

Today’s roundup was a more difficult one to coordinate, with riders bringing in sheep from three different directions.  Apparently those from the east were “supposed” to arrive first before we came down from the west.  But the weather was lousy and animals are unpredictable.  I was surprised that no one tried to use their cell phones or walkie-talkies.  The highest tech tool involved was a whistle.  But I like how the Icelanders maintain the roundup in nearly it original form; I think they relish its uncertainty.

We all arrived a little worse for the wear.  We were in the valley of Hvergerdi, surrounded by the billowing clouds of steam from Iceland’s most active geothermal springs.  The river we would cross to get home is warm – children were playing in it!

We tied the horses to graze for a few minutes while we were treated to the best coffee I have ever had.  Normally, I don’t drink coffee.  I don’t even like coffee.  But I was unable to say no and enjoyed every sip of two cups with milk.  The warmth flowed through my body.  I was never so happy.  The ride home proved exhilarating, as we tölted and galloped for half an hour, the horses as eager as their riders to return home.

We zipped through one of Iceland’s only forests in the blink of an eye.  (The government is trying to introduce trees to the coastal portions of the country.  Legend holds that the Norse settlers cut down all the trees to build houses and ships; but conventional wisdom says that trees never really reestablished themselves after the last Ice Age.  The harsh winds make it very difficult for young trees to grow.  That being said, Icelanders would love to have a domestic source for wood.)

The hot pot was never so inviting, and dinner never so warm and delicious.  I hadn’t herded many sheep that day, but I felt like I could do anything!

In case you are wondering what happened to the sheep, they were trucked to a circular rett a few miles away, where they spent the night.  We would sort them the next afternoon, a Monday, after many of the farmers were finished with their day jobs and the kids were out of school.  I included some pictures of the sorting in the slide show.  I found it harder to grab the sheep, smaller in number and who had more space to run around than on Saturday. The sheep seemed much more spirited.  Or was it that we riders were just more tired?

I rode in the two-day réttir, or roundup, as part of a group of riders organized by Eldhestar, one of Iceland’s largest horse farms.  Eldhestar (Volcano Horse) specializes in riding tours of Iceland, ranging from half-a-day to nine days.  They maintain a herd of over one hundred horses at the farm each summer.  Horse tours of Iceland are a practical, and fun way to see the country’s diverse landscape and are especially popular with riders from Scandinavia and Germany.

They advertise the roundup not as a tour, but as an “other activity, recommended for experienced riders only.”  Although we rode on the days before and after the roundup, we were in the saddle no more than six hours.  The roundup days were spent with the horses, but with significantly less time on horseback.  I came away from the experience with much more confidence as a horseperson, that is, handling the horses and being on the ground with them.  There was much less riding, but a lot of waiting, and sometime waiting alone with one’s horse.  I realized when they say “experienced riders,” that the event is best suited for people who enjoy being around horses in all situations, not just in the saddle.

As I wrote before my departure, the roundup is an annual affair, and the Mountain Herding Directive dictates the weekend in September when each region holds it roundups.  Those in contiguous valleys collect sheep on the same day, so if sheep stray over a mountain they will be found.  A smaller group of farmers will return to the hills in early October to find any stragglers who have not been forced down into the valleys by deteriorating weather conditions.

The réttir is a necessity for the farmers and the sheep, as well as a social event.  In one of the world’s most wired and tech-savvy countries, it is still carried out in much the same way as it was one hundred years ago.    For the farmers a century ago, the roundup was a once-a-year opportunity to see others whom harsh geography kept away.  Today the farmers do not get together often because of their busy lives: most have other jobs in addition to their agricultural ones.  For many farmers the roundup is justification for keeping a few horses on the farm – they may be ridden only a few weeks every September. Practically speaking, horses are not used just for nostalgic reasons:  although large tracts of land can be reached by more modernmeans of transportation, the steep hills and mountains are really only accessible by foot or sure-hooved Icelandic equines.  It is hard to beat the climbing prowess and speed of the sheep.

Our guide, Geert, aptly described the day’s events as “organized chaos.”  The farmers know when and where to assemble and appoint a “mountain king” to run the day.  All farmers are expected to participate in some fashion, whether they raise sheep or not.  If they choose not to ride, then they can supply hay for the horses, send someone to participate in their place, or transport another farmer’s flock home.  It is a real collective effort, in some ways akin to an Amish barn raising.

The roundup is a cultural ritual.  There is some bravado involved, and a lot of beer. Yes, copious amounts of beer were consumed each morning.  We saw the cases stashed in trucks, in horse trailers, in hay troughs.  We saw farmers stow the blue cans of Viking and Thule beer in their saddlebags, which probably held 4 cans per horse.  I saw no ill effects of their consumption; perhaps it helped them get down the steep slopes with less hesitation than I felt.  But there were those sheep that got away on the second day…

Out of the approximately 30 riders involved, I counted myself among eight women, including the four in my group.  The males ranged in age from about 13 to senior citizens.  We all, riders and horses, felt a real rush of adrenalin, riding out in a big pack each morning.  Some of the horses prance and dance in the face of the riders’ attempts to rein them in; others race to the front; some contentedly follow; but all join in the symphony of hooves beating out the 4- count rhythm of the tölt on the gravel road.  I could not wipe the smile off my face.

The first day of the roundup was relatively mild; we were lucky to have good weather – that is no rain, no heavy winds and excellent visibility, even if the sky was not always blue.  We would concentrate our efforts on the east side of the volcano Hengill, in an area known as Hellisheidi.  (An interesting aside – we rode this day in the shadow of the world’s second largest geothermal power station, and the largest in Iceland.   In some of the pictures you will see high tension wires that deliver the electricity to Reykjavik and in others look for the puffs of steam coming out of the earth.  Just another wonderful extreme of this truly unique country.)

We set out in different directions, our group to the east, and met more riders at a truck stop.  We unsaddled our horses, put them in a makeshift paddock, and headed inside for coffee, tea, pastries, and pancakes.  Here was our first break after only 2o minutes of riding!

Half an hour later we were back in the saddle. We headed back to the west and soon left the gravel road for an ancient lava field across a flat plain.  The horses instinctively knew where to step amongst the black volcanic rocks on the sponge-mossy ground.  One by one we stopped, as instructed by Geert, and dismounted to form a line of horses and riders covering a vast distance.  A space of maybe thirty yards separated the pairs.  Far across the valley rose steep hills, on the other side of which riders had set out toward us.  Our job was to hold the line steady until sheep were driven down those mountains and in front of us.  Our wing would then move up behind them driving them toward the rétt, or roundup pen, at our starting point.  My job was to stand still until the rider to my immediate left started to move forward, at which time, I would mount and move forward the same distance.  Our group was on the far side of the wing; we would have to wait the longest to move.  There was a significant amount of confusion, as all but one of us was new to this endeavor.  We were perhaps a bit impatient: the desire to ride and participate was strong. When was the last time any of us had stood still waiting for so long?

So, we waited for two hours.  I occasionally climbed in the saddle only to find that the riders to my left soon stopped, forcing me to dismount.  The horses were very patient as long as we stood on the ground; my horse, aptly named Goliath, happily munched on the tender moss and occasional tufts of long grass left behind by the sheep.  He was eager to move and work whenever I got on.  He knew what he was supposed to do.  We watched in the far distance as Geert and Johnny, one of the farmers, headed back to bring in some sheep they discovered behind them.  I must confess that more than once I thought, “Okay, this is supposed to be a sheep roundup.  Where are the sheep?  I came all this way and I don’t see any.”  But of course, just as my faith waivered, there they were, at first just a few pale dots on the far hills – it seemed as though they were a million miles away.  Eventually the line started to move and more sheep appeared, as we headed around boulders and over the many small hiccups on the field.  We heard the baaing of a few hidden sheep, to be discovered once we navigated the terrain.  Forward progress was slow, keeping us all at a walk, but that advantageously allowed the cowboys across the valley to drive the much larger numbers of sheep toward us.

The rider to my immediate left, Daniela, and I, were excited to come upon a few sheep so, so our flank began to move perhaps too quickly.  The vast majority of sheep were far away and seemed to be covered by the riders on that side, so we kept going.  Apparently they called for us to slow down, but we heard nothing and begin to drive a line of sheep closer toward our goal.  Luckily, no harm was done, and we soon all met a few hundred yards from the rétt.  Riders moved the sheep into a large temporary enclosure.  We tölted in en masse and released the horses in a smaller paddock, enjoyed a quick sandwich and a lot of water, and then set out to sort the sheep, the highlight of the day for the surrounding community.

The good news was that there were more sheep rounded up than in the last couple of years – almost 500; that was also the bad news.  Flock size was on the rebound, after an outbreak of some sort of illness a few years ago, which no one was able to name.  The community built a new rétt in 2006, but the number of sheep this year was simply too large to handle efficiently.  Its rectangular design allowed truck access from only one end, so the sorting was halted numerous times to load sheep and clear out space for the rest to be sorted.

But everyone took all this in stride.  Children scaled the sides and balanced on the planks between enclosures.  Old friends caught up and farmers looked with satisfaction at the growth of the spring lambs.  I had the opportunity to talk with sheep farmers about their flocks and how they care for them.  We exchanged notes; one was amazed that we have to trim hooves here.  Because the Icelandic sheep roam free for part of the year, the rocky terrain naturally files their hooves.  Another could not believe I had a ewe thirteen years old.  They simply would not keep a sheep past her productive years.  Some raised the animals purely for meat; others prized the wool as well.  But as far as I could surmise, there is no market for sheep’s milk in Iceland.

The sorting began with a few farmers replicating what we had done on horseback but now on foot – forcing them to a corner of the large, temporary paddock that led to the opening at one end of the sorting pen.  After their initial hesitation the sheep were persuaded to enter, usually after one brave ram lead the way.  Once the pen was filled, we all climbed in and started grabbing sheep the Icelandic way: grip the sheep by the horns, straddle its back and drag it to the door whose sign displays the number on the sheep’s ear tag.  By the end of the afternoon, most participants sported the same bruises that marked my inner thighs: badges of honor attesting to my strength in subduing these very spirited, springing animals.  Nearly all had horns, but for those that didn’t, or for the smallest ones, I used the method we employ at home with our sheep, a thumb in the mouth through the opening behind the bottom front teeth; it did not prove a successful strategy for maneuvering the sheep to a far corner of the pen.  We use it here to get the sheep off balance and seated on its hind end.

Again, we witnessed various feats of bravado – as farmers wrestled the largest, strongest rams.  But don’t let size trick you, some of the smaller ones put on worthy struggles to evade human contact.  And speaking of size, small children get in on the act as well.  People fall over, people get back up.  I was on my knees more than once.

We couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the animals – whose seemingly peaceful, undisturbed summers came to a screeching halt; distraught lambs were separated from their mothers.  Imagine the sound of 100 bleating sheep squeezed tightly together and then asked to go up a ramp into a dark truck.  They shook and quivered.  It is a sudden, perhaps upsetting end to a quiet season and inevitably to many of their short lives, but I think my flock would still envy the way their Icelandic cousins graze freely, virtually without predator, for most of their lives. (The arctic fox will prey upon the smaller lambs.)

We all joked that we would never forget the faces of the farmers attached to tag number 46A2 (the largest number of sheep), 27A2, 65A2, 47A2.    A few stray sheep had made their way into our valley as well; we found some numbers that no one could identify.  Someone took these home and would make inquiries.  Those numbers swirled through my sleeping mind that night.  I won’t forget the weathered faces of the hardworking farmers, smiling, calling out, thanking me for my help.  I brought in one handsome black ram to the delight of its owners, to find out that it was just a lamb.  He was the daughter’s prize, a single, huge lamb born to its mother last spring. We went home at 4 pm; in time to bring Nico, Eldhestar’s chef, back to prepare dinner for the hotel’s many weekend guests.  He had joined in on his first réttir.  I found my way to the hot pot and soaked my bruised legs in the warm water wondering what adventures tomorrow would hold.

I wondered to myself why Iceland has not produced more international swimming champions, given the prevalence of water in their lives: my conclusion is that they enjoy the pools more for relaxation than for a workout.

Later in the week, after hours in the saddle or walking through challenging terrain leading a horse, a trip to the pool in Hveragerdi was a well-earned reward. It is an incredible facility, considering the town has a population of 2300 – slightly fewer than my hometown.  The pool is one of the oldest in Iceland.  I tried the steam bath, which was too much for me after about two minutes, but its hot pots were my favorite – one kept at 38 (100.4  F) and the other at 40 degrees (104 F). The cooler pot is designed for families and children – one steps down into a wide shelf of no more than 10 inches of water. I begin sitting, but soon stretched out until I was lying down in the volcanic spring water.  The hotter pot is shoulder-deep on an adult.

These tubs do not have jets constantly turned on like in our hot tubs. Occasionally one has a single jet that is operated by a switch, as in Hveragerdi’s hottest pot.  It is so strong that the bather must first put a loop-like strap around to hold her steady as the stream literally punches the back.

During one of my visits we found an insulated, heavy plastic plunge tub placed next to the hottest pot.  It felt far colder than what I imagined 12 degree (53 F) water would be like.  I gingerly lowered myself until I was sitting with my legs outstretched and the water reached my collar-bone.  As a friend advised, the key is not to move, not to disturb the water.  My feet, specifically the toes, and my knees were most sensitive.  I lasted what seemed an eternity, but what was probably no longer than 90 seconds.  I quickly returned to the neighboring hot water and relished the ticklish feeling that soon climbed up my legs.

On my last afternoon I ran into a farmer I had met at the round-up two days before. This could only  happen in a place like Iceland!  She and her sons were making one of their thrice weekly pilgrimages to the pool. It was a fitting close to my Icelandic adventure; having delved deeply into the fascinating rural culture, I had the opportunity to chat with a new friend recounting the round-up and what we had all accomplished.  Soaking in the shallow tub she told me how she loved winter at the pool the most. I could almost feel the snow landing on me, as I imagined the warmth embracing me on a dark winter’s afternoon.

Reykjavik is often billed as the city with the best nightlife, but the city seems very quiet right now. In fact, I spent much of the day walking the city center’s street and it struck me as one of the quietest places I have ever been. Even the traffic was quiet, save the purr of the diesel engines at traffic lights.  The high tourist season is over and it must be a slow week. The Reykjavik Film Festival kicks off next week and October sees the much-touted Icelandic Airwaves Music Festival, organized annually by Björk, Iceland’s most famous performer. Bands and fans come from all over the world.  This is a real cultural capital.  There is public art everywhere, lots of fabulous sculpture.

Echoes of a Viking Ship - On the Waterfront

Today I finally got to see some medieval Icelandic manuscripts, which were inaccessible on my first visit to Iceland. Now, a small collection of them, is housed in The Culture House, just a few blocks from my hotel. I stayed in the excellent exhibit longer than most visitors probably do, reading every word that was available in English. I marveled at volumes dating as far back as the 13th century, manuscripts (some illuminated) on vellum of both the prose and poetic Edda, from which most of our knowledge of Norse mythology comes; manuscripts of the Icelandic Sagas, the stories that tell the history of Iceland in the 10th and 11th centuries; religious volumes including Lives of the Saints and Lives of the Apostles; and legal codes.  Unfortunately, I cannot read Old Norse, but the books are fascinating nonetheless.  The letters are miniscule, the occasional illuminations rather small.  Some are only partially extant.  But considering their age they are in remarkable condition.  These are the sources for much of what we know from Wagnerian opera, Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, and comic book heroes such as Thor. The story of how these priceless works were rediscovered and in many cases returned to Iceland from other nations was also explained.  One set of pages was rescued from an old farmhouse; holes had been punctured in it so that it could be used to sift flour!  I learned how vellum was made from animal skin and what a truly dreadful and arduous job it must have been to be a scribe.  But had it not been for them, so much of the oral tradition and our early history would have been lost.

Leif Ericson - According to the Vinland Sagas he was the first European in North America, 500 years before Columbus

This afternoon I walked along the waterfront to the brand new Harpa concert hall and conference center, which houses the Icelandic Symphony and Opera. The glass and steel facade, designed by Olafur Eliasson, stunningly reflects the water and sky outside. LEDs will illuminate many of the small windows during Iceland’s long, dark winters. The colors of the building changed as the day went on. I was fortunate to attend a short, afternoon concert of twentieth-century Icelandic songs by a tenor and a mezzo-soprano. Aware that most of the audience were tourists, they introduced each song in English and told a little about the composers and lyricists. These are the songs known by all Icelanders – lullabies, love songs, an Icelandic Ave Maria, and Romantic tales of horse riders fearful of elf queens and ghosts.

Harpa

The city definitely seems more subdued than 9 years ago, perhaps showing signs of the country’s economic collapse in 2008. It is very, very expensive here and I am not sure how people get by: gasoline costs close to $8 a gallon and I purchased a banana that cost more than $1 this evening. Of course, those and so many other products must be imported, but even the local meat and seafood on menus is more expensive than we are used to. On the other hand, the country produces 99% of its energy from local, renewable resources – geothermal and hydroelectric. There is virtually no pollution. All produce and livestock are raised organically. Icelandic men have the longest life expectancy on the planet and women the second longest. So they are doing something right.  Perhaps it is not in the clean air but in the hotdogs …

The Best Hotdogs in Town, Old Harbour: A Reykjavik Landmark

Icelander Enjoying Europe's Best Hotdog (same kind enjoyed by President Clinton and many others)

We rode on the famed Icelandic horses, descendants of those first introduced by the Vikings over one thousand years ago. By 1100, in an effort to prevent the spread of bubonic plague, all further importation of livestock was banned. Because of its isolation, the breed is one of the purest in the world: like the country’s cows and sheep, these horses suffer from few of the infectious diseases that threaten horses elsewhere. The flies are not known to carry disease. Therefore, if an Icelandic horse is exported to another part of the world, he may never return to his home. In fact, visiting riders must bring new or disinfected boots and other equipment, so that no foreign organisms are introduced. The Icelandic horse is renowned for its levelheaded disposition, its flowing and luxuriously thick mane and tail, and its five natural gaits. Not only do these equines walk, trot, and canter like other horses, but they also tölt and pace. It is the celebrated tölt that allows for wonderfully smooth, long days of riding. In this four-beat gait, the hooves move in the same pattern as in the walk, but at variable speed. One or two hooves are always on the ground, so there is no suspension, resulting in a smooth, virtually bounce-free ride.

If you have read this far, you are wondering, “What does this have to do with sheep, this is the Baablog after all?” Well, the answer is clear. Icelandic horses love to work, and perhaps their most important job is rounding up the sheep each autumn, bringing them back to the farmers after a summer spent in the country’s interior. Iceland is a little like our Wild West. Large flocks and herds still range freely. Horseback riding is much more macho, in fact, it strikes me as male-dominated in Iceland – and the Icelanders remind me a bit of cowboys. The réttir, as the roundup is called in Icelandic, is a cultural event of great importance, held on September weekends so that people can return to their childhood villages to help and celebrate. It was traditionally men’s work, but now many more women join in. Not so long ago, when the villagers were more isolated, réttir was often the place to meet eligible members of the opposite sex.

You have probably heard that sheep far outnumber humans in Iceland, by a margin of 4 to 1. (Human population is only 319,000.) People and their domesticated animals live mainly on the coasts, with the highest concentration in the south, where as much grassland as possible is reserved for the hay that will feed the animals in the winter. So as soon as the climate allows it, the sheep are sent inland to roam and graze freely. In mid September riders collect the sheep, driving them down from the more mountainous regions into large sheepfolds in the valley; there they are sorted and returned to their farmers. (This activity is known as draga í dilka.) In turn, each farmer decides which lambs will be kept for the winter and breeding, and which will be sent to the slaughterhouse. Given the popularity of Icelandic lamb, I imagine that the majority of these creatures will be marked with the traditional red cross on their forehead. Their lives may be short, but they are spent roaming free with their mothers in idyllic surroundings eating grass. It sure beats an industrial feedlot.

Of course, the sheep deserve equal, if not more, time on the Baablog. Icelandic sheep developed as a breed in much the same way as the horses: the Vikings also introduced their ancestors in the tenth century, and they too developed in striking isolation. The Icelandic sheep is one of the purest breeds of all livestock. Domestically, they are raised primarily for meat, but internationally they are known for their wonderful, double-coated, virtually waterproof fleece. They are classified as a primitive breed, and it is their fleece that my Shetland sheep compete against in fiber judging contests. The outercoat of the wool is called tog, the finer undercoat, thel. My wonderful new reference book, The Fleece & Fiber Sourcebook by Deborah Robson and Carol Ekarius, explains that Icelandic fleeces shorn at different times of the year feel different to the hand and spin up in varied fashion. Commercially prepared yarn contains both kinds of wool and results in those wonderful, thick, nearly water-repellent Lopi sweaters. I also learned that lopi refers to unspun fiber that was traditionally knitted like spun yarn.

The reason I am rambling on about all of this is that I will be participating in the réttir next weekend. There are numerous roundups, some of which take extra riders, tourists, and hangers-on in SUVs. I have been told that the weather can be extreme, varying between sunshine and downpour each day. The high temperature will be in the fifties, if we are lucky. We will ford rivers, lead our horses up steep hillsides, and do out best to use the horses to gather the sheep who have spread out to far-flung locations. We will be in the saddle many hours each day. One description I read said not to expect non-stop action: some shepherds may have to hold their position for hours on end. Of the five planned days of riding, three will be spent actively gathering and sorting sheep. I am sure I will learn a lot about both sheep and horses.

I plan to post updates from the trip on the Baablog, assuming I have a good wireless connection, remember to bring all the right cables, and am not too exhausted at the end of each long day. I plan on spending part of each evening in as many hot pots and pools filled with Iceland’s famed geothermal-heated water as I can.

If you would like to follow along on Google Maps, just search for Hengill, South Iceland. That is the volcano around which we will be riding. Also look for Selfoss further southeast, where our farm base is located, and Hvergerthi, a larger town and the center of Iceland’s geothermal activity and greenhouses, which supply much of the nation’s vegetables.

I arrive in Reykjavik on Wednesday, the 14th, and head to the farm on the evening of the 15th. We ride on Friday to get comfortable with the horses and then round up sheep Saturday and Sunday. Monday morning we sort and presumably celebrate in Icelandic style. A fun, surprise ride is planned for Tuesday. And I fly home on the 21st.

Thanks to Linda, Becky, and Holly, and extra carrots for Tinna, for all their help in getting me ready for this adventure. Wish you could all come along.

Stay tuned as the Baablog hits the road. Join me, won’t you?

You probably remember the story of the young, orphaned, naïve pig, who finds himself alone at Mr. Hoggett’s farm. The resident border collie Fly soon takes him under her wing. As Babe’s unusual sensitivities and talents reveal themselves, Farmer Hoggett forgives the trouble the piglet sometimes finds himself in. Babe warns the farmer of sheep thieves on Christmas Day and saves much of Mr. Hoggett’s flock. Simultaneously, Babe’s abilities force his barnyard companions to reevaluate their own roles on the farm. (The house cat is of course the only one who does not come around.) When Mr. Hoggett assumes that Babe, when found with blood on his snout, is responsible for the killing of the matron of his flock, Fly the dog is motivated to speak to the sheep directly for the first time; only with their help is she able to save Babe from Mr. Hoggett’s shotgun.

Eventually Babe is allowed to work the sheep. Unbeknownst to Mr. Hoggett, they have taught Babe simply to ask them  politely to move, rather than herd them aggressively like the dogs, whom they refer to as wolves, do. Babe learns the valuable lesson that a little respect goes a long way.

Randy and I were particularly envious when Babe convinces the sheep that their worming medicine is not worth fighting. The ewes march one by one to the waiting farmer for their drench. Let me assure you that it has never been that easy to administer medication at Sharon Valley Shepherds!

At the film’s climax Babe astounds the flabbergasted audience at the National Sheep Dog Trials with his ability to herd sheep he has never seen before. Mr. Hoggett’s animals band together to save their master’s face: realizing that these strange sheep will not respond to a pig, the old dog Rex races home to get the secret password from the flock. For the first time he too speaks to the sheep, who eventually confide the secret ovine language. Rex races back to Babe, who then earns the reverence of the six ewes: they follow his polite requests to the finish. Babe and Farmer Hoggett earn the national title with perfect scores. The credits role, reassuring the audience that Babe has been saved from the dinner table.

That evening I eagerly headed to the barn for our evening chores. As I put out some hay as a treat, I tried the password once, and then again. Although I thought I saw a look of recognition in my old ewe Theo’s eyes, she didn’t say a word. I do think that Roland the Donkey clearly speaks the sheep’s language. They await his every command, often not venturing out of the paddock in the morning until he leads them.

The four members of our household all gleaned different messages from Babe. One said that the movie was about carnivores; another said that he did not want to eat his favorite bacon any more. The boys agreed that the movie was about a little pig, who went on big adventures and did great things. For me the film is about going against the grain and respecting on another. We can all go a long way, if we refuse to believe in stereotypes.

“Baa-ram-ewe. Baa-ram-ewe. To your breed, your fleece, your clan be true. Sheep be true. Baa-ram-ewe.”

Neither beast nor man has spoken truer words.

We began our hurricane preparations early on Saturday, filling extra water buckets in the event of a power outage, laying fresh straw in the stalls, emptying the manure cart, and stowing loose objects inside. I tried not to think of worst-case scenarios; if we should ever have to evacuate the animals, we would be at the mercy of friends who have a truck or trailer. And where would we take the sheep?

At Sharon Valley Shepherds we managed to get the flock and Roland into the barn at about 7:30 Saturday evening. The sheep are often hesitant to come into the stalls, and sometimes buckets of grain or flakes of hay are unable to convince them to approach. They are especially suspicious when my helper hides around the corner and then sneaks around to close the barn doors behind. Surely they imagine the vet or shearer appearing to administer a nasty shot or to claim their wool. And if a particularly skittish ewe like Theo, the old lady, darts back out before the door is latched, panic ensues; they all rush out and a game of chase begins. The eve of the storm was no exception, but our herding techniques are improving, and they soon settled inside, four sheep in one stall and three next door with Roland. Once inside they were remarkably calm and enjoyed some nice green hay. The vet advised me to keep everyone in, so with the Dutch doors open to help cool off the barn, we penned the cats in a large dog crate borrowed from a friend. The flock and its humans soon went to bed, not sure what we would find in the morning.

The rain arrived around midnight and continued for a good eighteen hours, but the winds were never terribly strong. In fact, the fiercest gusts came at the tail end of Irene late Sunday evening.  Anxious to get outside and assess the rising stream on the property’s edge, we also visited the barn frequently.  By late Sunday afternoon we were able to invite the animals out for a couple of hours of very wet and muddy grazing, but by 8pm, when the winds had picked up substantially, they were waiting to come in again, this time with no protest, willingly surrendering to another night’s captivity. By Monday morning there was not a cloud in the blue sky.

I returned to the barn to a most incredible sight – Roland was sitting down in the middle of the straw-filled stall surrounded by his admiring flock. The seven sheep stretched around him in a semi-circle like back-up singers around a pop star. Once the door was opened, they carefully stepped outside and navigated the muddy paddock and aimed for the very soggy back field.

I emptied my extra water buckets, freed the cats, and pushed the heavy door open to the glorious late summer day.

Mid-December initiated the pattern of weekly winter storms through January, defining a winter unlike any we can remember. There have been larger single storms, but January’s snowfall for the state (I think measured at Hartford’s Bradley Airport) was record setting at 4 feet, 11 inches. Our Northwest Hills region typically has the highest snowfall in Connecticut, but I believe the shoreline to our south may actually top us this unusual year.

Ask anyone, there has been a lot of snow and a lot of cold days, and I mean, nights with subzero temperatures. The digital thermometer measured 14 below one early morning in January, as I pulled on my long johns. And our frost-proof hydrant that supplies water to the animals – well, what is “frost-proof” anyway? A couple of mornings the handle has stubbornly refused to lift and we must wait until the sun warms the air for a few hours to freshen our bucket.

I have learned new things about my animals this winter and some notions have been confirmed. Roland, whose ancestors tie him to the rocky, dry climes of Sicily, does not like the cold. He has spent entire days inside the dark barn, barely sticking his head out the open door. He will begrudgingly walk the 30 feet to the hay feeder if he must, but when the wind howls, he stands in the stall and looks at me with the eyes so familiar to readers of AA Milne. Eeyore, I am sure, would demand that his hay be tossed on the barn floor, so as not to have to venture out in the elements.

The sheep are relatively unfazed by the snow. Their wooly jackets provide excellent insulation and it is not unusual to find them with snow-covered backs. The wool stands between the animal’s heat and the snow. It is dangerous though if they are without shelter during a freezing rainstorm. Should the rain steep down into their wool, they can catch an irreversible chill.

Both miniature donkey and the sheep agree on one thing – as do most of the animals I see while driving: they will not walk into the deep snow. It is simply too difficult and they will not even try. Their world has shrunk dramatically this season. They are surrounded by snow and refuse to stray further than their own well-trod path from barn, to water, to hay and back. Randy optimistically cleared a small path into the pasture for them, but they took one look and decided to stay closer to home. You can open a gate, but you can’t lead a sheep for a walk!

I fear that their muscles are atrophying, that they are terribly depressed, and I imagine that they dream of May and June, when the grass is at its sweetest and greenest. They all devour as much hay as we put out for them. The stall floors have little bedding, because Roland, Pete, and the girls eat most of the straw as soon as I spread it. Although I try not to ascribe human emotions to the animals, they do seem bored. How could they not be? One of the little girls, Princess Leia, I think, is frequently spotted challenging the other sheep to head butting contests. She longs to rule the flock.

One Sunday afternoon I was determined to take Roland for a walk. He reluctantly allowed me to put on his halter and lead rope. We squeezed through the small opening the gate made between piles of snow and out we went. He balked as I lead him further from the barn and the flock. In the driveway he danced a few steps, uncomfortable that the sheep were out of his view. I timed things badly, because just then, I noticed Randy on the porch roof in his brilliant red down jacket, shoveling the heavy snow onto the ground below. A moment later the screen door flew open as the boys bounded out to play. It was all a bit too much for Roland. I asked the boys to bring him some carrots, but that did little to appease him. So, after traversing the driveway a couple of times, we headed back home. The shoveled path to the barn was barely wide enough for one person, so he led the way, picking up his pace and leaving me in the deep snow at the end of the rope. He stopped by the gate and then gratefully returned to his sheep, who incidentally, barely seemed to notice he had been gone for ten minutes.

While the big animals slow down for the winter, little ones can add some life to a cold barn. We introduced two male cats, brothers named Cutie and Oreo, to the mix in December, after they spent October and November in the garage. By Christmas they were fully vaccinated and big enough to brave the cold. The first few days they were unable to jump up and over the stall doors, so we held them up to see the big guys. But things got interesting a few days later. As the cats grew stronger and more determined, they managed to get into the stalls by leaping from the stacked hay and straw bales. The catch was they were unable to get back out, as there was no surrogate step on the other side. Roland was curious to sniff them, but fortunately was unthreatened. The sheep were fascinated and the smaller, younger brown girls were especially curious, literally cornering kittens in the barn. Yet Oreo and Cutie persisted learning to dodge larger, stronger hooves. Within a couple of weeks, they were sitting atop fence posts, squeezing between the woven wire fences and venturing further from the barn. Now they come to join the boys to play in the snow.  Cutie even followed us 100 yards across the yard to watch the boys sled. They are wonderful cats; lets just hope they catch some mice soon!

Just the other day, Kun-Woo declared that it smelled like spring. I didn’t pick up the scent, but optimistically look forward to a slow melt, a very muddy barnyard, the inklings of green, April shearing, and the chirping of birds. It will be messy, but at least it will be spring!