Most consumers aren’t thinking about fraud in their food supply while pushing a cart around their local grocery story. But shady shenanigans, fakery, and outright fraud happen more than you might realize.

In this Modern Farmer feature series, we investigate the wide world of food fraud and fakery—and explore the technology poised to make supply chains more transparent.

It’s Time to Stop Underestimating the Scope of Food Fraud

by Karen Constable

Food fraud affects much more than consumers know, and not just in high-cost foods like honey and whiskey. It occurs in all parts of the food chain, including commodities such as grains and oils, animal feeds, fruit and bulk ingredients. [Read more]

Using a Food’s Unique Fingerprint to Detect Fraud

by Emily Baron Cadloff

Every food has a unique, and invisible, chemical “fingerprint.”A researcher from Purdue University has discovered a quick and portable way to identify that fingerprint and sniff out food fraud on the go. [Read more]

In the Shopping Cart

by Lena Beck

Here are some common examples of food frauds and fakes you could come into contact with at grocery stores around the world. [Read more]

When Labels Lie

by Lena Beck

Food labels are loaded with words and images that convey meaning. Knowing the story of your food means sifting through the true, the false and everything in between. [Read more]

Can You Trust the Organic Food Label?

by Emily Baron Cadloff

“Organic” food is specifically certified and verified, but millions of dollars worth of fraud still occurs within the organic system. [Read more]

What’s in a Name? Food Labels, Explained

by Lena Beck

Food labels can be difficult to understand and interpret, so we’ve created a glossary of some common ones that you’ll see at the grocery store. [Read more]

Can the Blockchain Clear the Smoke for Cannabis?

by Naoki Nitta

Cannabis often has a hazy supply chain, but blockchain technology promises seed-to-sale transparency for growers and consumers. [Read more]

Series edited and illustrated by Rose Garrett 

The post Phonies, Fakes and Food Fraud appeared first on Modern Farmer.

In this Modern Farmer feature series, we dig into how climate is impacting California’s producers through the lens of five of the state’s most iconic food products: dairy, citrus, salmon, wine grapes, and almonds.

‘An Insane Amount of Water’: What Climate Change Means For California’s Biggest Dairy District

by Naoki Nitta

Tulare County is the largest dairy producer in California and the U.S. But as climate change exposes the region’s vulnerability, could the industry collapse under its own weight?

There’s No Cure for Citrus Greening. California Growers Have No Choice but to Keep Going
by Emily Baron Cadloff

The bacteria is fatal to citrus trees, and has decimated citrus groves in Florida and Texas. Now, California growers are holding the line to keep producing the vital crops.

California’s Salmon Are Teetering on the Brink

by Rose Garrett

The state’s prized salmon have a will to survive against the odds. Can we get out of their way?

Why California Wineries are Embracing Fire to Avoid Disaster

by Julie Tremaine

The California wine industry has been rocked by years of destructive wildfires. Now, it’s working to adapt before the next big one ignites.

Almonds are Under Threat. The Key to Saving Them Could Be in the Soil

by Emily Baron Cadloff

Rising temperatures, lack of water and encroaching development are creating tough conditions for the crucial California crop. Their continued viability could all depend on strengthening the lands on which they sit.

Series edited by Rose Garrett and Emily Baron Cadloff
Illustrations by Adam Ming

The post State of Abundance appeared first on Modern Farmer.

No other birds seemed ill, but the next morning, two guinea fowl lay dead on the floor, their heads puffy and eyelids swollen shut. On the third day, a duck would not stop sneezing.

That third day, I called the Maine State Veterinarian to inquire what we should do if we thought we had High Pathogenic Avian Influenza (HPAI) in our flock. I knew that avian flu was killing flocks of commercial poultry—the outbreak has affected more than 58 million poultry birds in the U.S. at last count—and had read about protecting my birds from the spread of the virus. But I had no idea what steps to take if I was afraid my flock had HPAI. 

Symptoms of HPAI include sudden deaths, sneezing and swollen heads.

The State Veterinarian informed me that it would send a representative to test our flock. If the test was negative, nothing would happen to our birds. If it was positive, our entire flock would be euthanized to help prevent the disease from spreading. It took a few days for the test to process, and then I got the phone call.  

“I am afraid it is positive,” said Rachael Fiske, assistant state veterinarian in Maine.

The next day, officials arrived to euthanize our flock. Our birds were confined to their coop. The officials would capture them and put them in a confined box where carbon monoxide was applied, resulting in a quick and painless death. While they worked carefully to ensure the birds were not stressed, I could tell from the anxious honking of the flock that they understood the situation. The carcasses were then bagged in plastic and taken for secure disposal by the state.

The author holds two of her geese.

Our first poultry arrived in a peeping box at the post office in 2013. We had ordered five chicks and two goslings.

The goslings imprinted on us, and all summer they followed us and settled in our laps when we sat down. My family had kept chickens when I was a kid, but geese were a new experience for me and I spent hours searching the internet for details on their care. As I fell in love with these birds, I realized there was very little information on keeping them—my best research being an out-of-print book that I had to get through an interlibrary loan. So, I started jotting down notes and making records of their care.

By 2016, when we moved to Liberty, Maine, we had a flock of more than 20 geese (and an additional 30 or so chickens and ducks), and my first book, The Modern Homesteader’s Guide to Keeping Geese, was headed to the publisher. I had become The Goose Lady.

Because goslings imprint easily, most of the geese in our flock saw me as “mother goose” and our bonds were strong, with birds running to my side when I stepped out of the house.

For years, we kept our geese and ducks happy with water troughs and buckets, but in 2021, we dug out a farm pond for the birds. They took to it instantly, swimming, bathing and splashing all day in the new open waters—as did passing wild ducks.

As news of avian flu began to bubble in the winter of 2021-22, commercial flocks in the Midwest seemed the most affected. However, some speculate it is small farms and homesteads that have led to the proliferation of HPAI because free-ranging birds interact more with wild birds. The rise in popularity of backyard poultry in recent years means even more intermingling.  

In February 2022, a warm winter kept the pond waters open, and flocks of hundreds of migrating ducks used our farm as a stopover on their migrations north.

Information on HPAI suggested quarantining domestic birds: no interacting with wild flocks, shut your poultry in their coops indefinitely. I considered this, but our flock of geese was at the height of their mating season, fighting and setting their pecking orders for the year, and birds would be injured in an enclosed space for a long period of time. Even without injury, the unhappiness of the cooped-up geese was evident—and how long would goose lockdown last? Humanely quarantining our birds would require either major infrastructure upgrades, or a downsizing of the flock.  

The author’s geese in happier days.

By the end of the day on April 5, 2022, there were no living poultry on our farm. The morning had started with a honking, frolicking flock of almost a hundred geese, chickens, guineas and ducks. Now, it was eerily silent.

It would take several weeks to get used to that silence. The USDA required a fallow period of 150 days before we would be allowed to add new poultry to our farm, but it took much longer to process my feelings. They would reimburse us for the value of the birds, a poultice on the wound of loss.

My first feelings were of deep guilt, knowing that if I had kept my birds quarantined inside they would not have contracted HPAI. Never again would I have more birds than an indoor space could comfortably accommodate, even if that meant limiting ourselves to only a couple of birds. The hope that the avian flu outbreak would mitigate over the summer soon disappeared, and as we head into a new migration season, cases are once again increasing, prompting poultry farmers to remain vigilant. And while the decimation of commercial flocks has meant an increase in store-bought egg prices, many backyard poultry farmers, including myself, can no longer step outside to gather eggs.

Would I even add birds back? The answer remains unclear. Our flock brought us endless enjoyment, but that joy ended in deep heartbreak. For now, as HPAI continues to ravage backyard and commercial flocks across the US, birds are not part of our farm.

Kirsten Lie-Nielsen is a writer and educator in Liberty, Maine, where she and her husband are restoring a 200-year-old farm and raising Nigerian Dwarf goats and Babydoll sheep. She is the author of two books on homesteading, “The Modern Homesteader’s Guide to Keeping Geese” and “So You Want to Be a Modern Homesteader,” and she shares farming knowledge via her website and social media, as well as offering occasional classes. She can be found at hostilevalleyliving.com or on Instagram @hostilevalleyliving.

The post I Was ‘The Goose Lady.’ Then Avian Flu Came For My Flock appeared first on Modern Farmer.

Lewington owned and operated Dalew Farms with her husband Dave and their children in Lavigne, Ontario. They had already begun selling online, direct-to-consumer. “In-person sales were taking too much away from our family time, and then we just had no privacy at home,” says Lewington. The Eat Local Co-op was one of the final storefronts to which Lewington still sold, and now that would no longer be an option.

The farmers weren’t sure how to move forward—until they took a look at Lewington’s website.

 “[My husband] and I showed them our website and how we were doing online sales,” says Lewington. The group admired the friendly features and check-out functions for customers. They brainstormed together and came up with a solution. “[We could] create a website where multiple farms could list their products and have them all have the customer order them in one place and delivered all at the same time to  save on shipping costs and packaging. It just took off from there,” she says.

Initially, the plan was to rotate other responsibilities such as marketing and social media among the participating farms.

There was some news coverage when four participating farms—Dalew Farms, Kipling Ridge Farms, Field Good Farms and Three Forks Farms—announced their online local food initiative called Click Fork. 

“We did a one-year soft launch to see how it would go over,” says Lewington. “The farmers were selling out of a lot of products…It went really well.”

Chantal Lewington in ClickFork’s warehouse space. Photography courtesy of Chantal Lewington.

When the participating farmers noticed that the logistical and clerical work associated with their growth became too much to manage among them all, Lewington left her job as an X-ray technologist to manage Click Fork’s needs full time. In the four years since starting, dozens of participating vendors have joined, some spurred on by COVID restrictions on in-person shopping. The self-proclaimed Northeastern Online Farmers’ Market offers local products from more than 25 farms.

The loss of in-person farmers markets was not a crisis for Dalew Farms, which actually noticed a decrease in its food waste. One of the key differences of the online model is that people order it in advance; everything is sold even before it gets harvested. 

“That’s a big plus to me,” says Lewington. “I hate wasting food, but that’s something we used to do at the in-person farmers markets. I hated having to come home with a bunch of extra produce. We would feed it to our pigs, but that’s not really feasible. You never know what you’re going to sell on a certain day [depending] how people feel or what the weather is like.” 

Online farmers markets typically operate in a defined location, working with local farms in that region to market and ship fresh produce directly to consumers. They are becoming more popular; models such as Click Fork are thriving while their physical counterparts are suffering.

Digital direct-to-consumer selling within agriculture has been a trend of the pandemic, as physical stores have had to shut down and supply chain issues made getting shipping materials difficult at times. But with Click Fork, Lewington’s farm didn’t suffer during lockdowns; in fact, sales tripled during the pandemic.

Proponents of the online farmers market also argue that it is a more convenient system for food producers and customers; farmers save time and buyers are able to shop from their computer year-round while supporting local farms. Farmers do not have to take two days off work to travel to markets.

That’s one of the biggest perks for Chelsea Abbott, beekeeper and owner of Lenora Bee Apiary, and a member of Cow-Op.ca, a year-round non-profit co-operative in the Cowichan Valley Regional District in British Columbia. “I wanted to find a predictable means to sell my vegetables without having to spend more of my time standing at a farmers market,” says Abbott. “Before Cow-Op, I sold exclusively at [a] very classic, quintessential farmers market in the middle of the field. And you get to directly connect with those customers,” she says. “You get to tell them you know why your cauliflower is too small or why the carrots look the way they do this week or what’s doing well.”

Abbott says that, initially, she didn’t understand how these intangible opportunities would translate to an online marketplace, but she is now able to meet dedicated customers via Cow-Op’s network. She gets to know weekly customers with touches such as writing notes on their packages.

Since then, Abbott has, at various points, been a Cow-Op farmer, board member, employee and loyal customer. She’s now the general manager, handling the logistics of 60 to 80 co-operative members.

She says the stressful times of the last three years were more successfully weathered as part of the co-operative. “With the model of Cow-Op being a co-operative, they really stepped up and just made sure that we could get our produce directly to customers,” says Abbott. “That was also the time where, organizationally, we grew by about 500 percent.”

Seeing an increase in demand, the Cow-Op was able to offer home delivery, which until then had just been “a pipe dream.” Abbott says this increased the accessibility of Cow-Op’s products, adding that she sold everything she grew because of its offerings.

Mary Heffernan of Five Mary’s moved online before the pandemic, leaving her well-prepared for the changes in shopping habits. Photography courtesy of Five Marys.

Selling directly to consumers works for bigger operations as well. Close to the Oregon border in California, Mary Heffernan operates Five Marys Farm with her husband.They left the bustle of the Bay Area to raise the kind of cattle that they as restaurateurs wanted to see on the market. “Nine years ago, no one was really shipping meat,” says Heffernan. But online shopping was important to her, so the pair dug in and started experimenting with the best ways to reach their customers. “We were dead set on there has to be a way to do this so that we never have to leave the ranch…We spent about a year [trying] different packaging—different boxes, different liners, using dry ice versus gel packs…After a year, we got the secret sauce figured out—the best box, the best liner, the best way to make it affordable to ship overnight to customers.”

They had a website for customers to order by the cut. “If they wanted a bunch of filet mignon for a dinner party, we could accommodate that and have it show up on their doorstep the next day,” says Heffernan. That preparation years ago served them well during the pandemic. 

“During the pandemic, there was never a time where people were more concerned about the security of knowing where their food was coming from and that it was going to show up. Never before had grocery store shelves been empty,” says Heffernan. “We would sell out almost instantly. People were calling crying like it was concert tickets: ‘There was a skirt steak in my cart and now it’s gone!’”

Critics argue that online farmers markets eliminate the face-to-face connections for farmers and their potential customers, losing opportunities to connect directly with consumers. Heffernan turned to Instagram for help breaking those barriers and to avoid spending her weekends stuck in traffic on the way to and from markets and deliveries.

“I shared our daily life—the good, the bad and the hardships of ranching…the beautiful new babies being born,” says Heffernan. “That’s really how we build our customer base…by being transparent on social media and letting people connect with us and feel like they’re part of our story. When they’re eating their meat, they know who was raising it.”

Heffernan coaches family farms in a course for small agriculture entrepreneurs, helping them set up a website and start selling directly to consumers.

“There’s so many farms and ranches that have been doing things one way for generations,” says Heffernan. “It’s so neat to see the people who have taken this course and…the change that they’re making in their operations; convincing their dad, ‘our kids aren’t going to be around to run this ranch if we don’t make a change, and direct-to-consumer is the way to go.’”

The post The Rise of Virtual Farmers Markets appeared first on Modern Farmer.

Colorful paintings by local artists hang on the walls. There are reference books such as “Medicinal Mushrooms: An Essential Guide” and recipes for dishes such as Smoky Spanish Style Oyster Mushrooms. A stuffed gnome sits on a window sill. 

The refrigerated display case is where buyers can find Collar City’s crop: the specialty mushrooms produced in its three climate-controlled grow rooms.  

Each room houses vertical racks, lined with brown blocks of substrate that provide the nutrition and energy mushrooms require to grow and fruit. Just 320 square feet in total, the grow rooms yield approximately 150 pounds of mushrooms per week. At any given moment, a half-dozen different kinds of mushrooms are in production.  

“We have mountains of mushrooms right now,” Avery Stempel, owner of Collar City, informs a customer eyeing the oyster, shiitake, lion’s mane and king trumpets in the case. “Want me to put a mix together?” 

Avery Stempel, co-owner of Collar City Mushrooms, shows off some of the mushrooms in his grow room. Photography by Sara Foss.

Collar City, established in 2020 by Stempel and his partner, Amy Hood, is premised on the idea that to know mushrooms is to love them. However, most Americans need a better introduction to the wide diversity of edible fungi species, many of which can be found in their own backyards. Stempel and Hood, for instance, began loving mushrooms through foraging. 

“I would go to the forest, and finding that splash of color, the mysterious mushroom that just suddenly appeared, was always fascinating to me,” says Stempel. “When Amy and I got together, one of the things that connected us was our phones were filled with pictures of mushrooms.” After the two dated for a little while, they began talking about starting a mushroom farm. 

It was mostly a pipe dream —until Stempel was furloughed from his job at a performing arts center early in the pandemic. “I thought, ‘Maybe this is the catalyst I need to start the mushroom farm,’” he says. 

Now, Collar City is selling mushrooms to about 20 restaurants and has plans to double its operations, to 300 pounds from 150 pounds per week in 2023. Other goals include building a grow room in the basement, a bar and a stage for performances and a commercial kitchen. 

In starting their company, Stempel and Hood were ahead of the mushroom curve. The New York Times declared the mushroom 2022’s ingredient of the year, observing that the number of “small urban farms growing mushrooms is expected to bloom.” The buzz was warranted, but most of the mushrooms consumed in the U.S. still come from a single, commercially produced species, Agaricus bisporus. These mushrooms take several forms familiar to anyone who eats pizza or salad: button, brown and portobello. 

Specialty mushrooms—defined as any mushroom not belonging to the genus Agaricus—are a small but emerging niche, one that Stempel and others hope to cultivate and usher into the mainstream. 

Steve Gabriel, specialty mushrooms and agroforestry specialist for the Cornell Small Farms Program in central New York, began teaching outdoor growers to cultivate shiitake mushrooms about a decade ago. Interest skyrocketed, and Cornell began working with indoor farmers about two years ago, in response to grower demand. “People kept asking about it,” says Gabriel. 

“People are super-hyped for specialty mushrooms,” says Devon Gilroy, owner of Tivoli Mushrooms in the small city of Hudson, N.Y., about 50 miles south of Troy. “The problem is that the mushrooms you see at the grocery store are dying in little plastic bags.” 

Established six years ago in a former chair factory on the banks of the Hudson River, Tivoli Mushrooms is in the midst of a major expansion. The farm currently produces about 1,000 pounds of mushrooms per week. A larger building will enable Tivoli to exponentially boost production, to between 12,000 to 15,000 pounds of mushrooms per week. “Nobody in New York State is going all in on specialty mushrooms like we are,” says Gilroy, who sells to restaurants, markets and apothecaries. 

Gilroy is also looking to tap into the booming market for what’s known as “functional mushrooms,” coveted for benefits such as enhanced immunity, better brain function and relief from inflammation, and a key ingredient in wellness products such as powders and teas. He recently launched a sister company, Go Mushrooms, that manufactures medicinal tinctures.

California and Pennsylvania are the biggest producers of U.S. mushrooms, with the Keystone State accounting for 66% of the total volume of sales, according to the USDA. Still, New York growers are optimistic about New York’s potential to become a bigger player, specifically in the specialty market.  

They point to the state’s abundance of protected forests, where conditions for outdoor growing on inoculated logs are ideal, and the possibilities opened up by indoor, vertical farming. Especially well positioned to tap into the burgeoning appetite for gourmet mushrooms in New York City and the lower Hudson Valley are farmers in the eastern part of the state. 

“If you can grow mushrooms, you can sell them,” says Gabriel. “It’s not hard. There’s a demand.” 

The value of sales for commercially grown specialty mushrooms jumped 32% in 2021-2022, to $87.3 million, according to the United States Department of Agriculture. This surge occurred even as the value of the Agaricus crop, estimated at $931 million, fell 7% from the previous season. 

Gabriel estimates that there are at least 500 specialty mushroom growers in the U.S., with about 100 in New York, but it’s tough for many of them to enter the business full time. It’s also difficult to get an accurate picture of how many people are growing specialty mushrooms, because of the USDA’s focus on larger farms in select states.  

“The vast majority of folks are doing this as a side hustle,” says Gabriel. “Most of the farms down in Pennsylvania are grossing $1 million a year or more. That’s very different from the audience we’re working with at Cornell.” About one-quarter of the farmers surveyed by Cornell “produce over 100 pounds of mushrooms a week, and the rest produce under 100 pounds. It’s bringing in income, but it’s not $1 million a year.”

The stock at Collar City Mushrooms is dried or kept refrigerated for customers. Photography by Sara Foss.

In 2012, Gabriel started his own mushroom farm, Wellspring Forest Farm, in New York’s Finger Lakes region. In the beginning, he grew shiitake in the woods, putting into practice the agroforestry practices he espoused at Cornell and in classes offered at Wellspring. When robust demand for his mushrooms sparked thoughts of expansion, he realized the best way to scale up was indoors. Now Wellspring produces oysters, lion’s mane and king oyster mushrooms in a building constructed for that purpose. 

“There were only so many logs we could schlep around,” says Gabriel. “If you really want to make a sizable income from mushroom growing, it’s a much easier transition if you have some indoor capacity.”

From his vantage point at the Cornell Small Farms Program, Gabriel sees big things ahead for specialty mushrooms. In New York, the increase in the number of growers has outpaced other states. But whether the state becomes known for specialty mushroom production depends in part on whether its agricultural leaders find ways to make it easier for would-be growers to get started and expand, such as loosening the rules around turning fresh mushrooms into value-added products such as powders or foods. 

“In some states, like Maine and Vermont, you can do a lot of that stuff in your kitchen, until you gross more than $10,000 in sales or sell more than 100,000 units,” says Gabriel. “If I want to dry my mushrooms, I’ve got to rent a commercial kitchen and dry them there.” 

“The grower interest is there,” says Gabriel, adding that, with state-supported regulations, the community will continue to expand. “We have another several decades of being on the upswing of the curve.”

The post Could New York Become the Mushroom State? appeared first on Modern Farmer.

We’re not alone on our little island, isolated though it may be. We have 21 hens and one punky bantam rooster, which provide eggs for us and friends in town. Proceeds from the sales barely cover our feed costs, but the joy of having a large flock is profit enough. I have collected a variety of hen types, from flighty leghorns to easter eggers, cochins and barred rocks to docile buff orpingtons. The resulting rainbow of eggs always delight buyers. My two rabbits provide manure for a one-day self-sustaining food garden. Being so far from town means we can’t just load a pickup truck with bagged manure at the feed store. Instead, the rabbits and chickens both contribute to this task. Our four dogs are companions for us, especially on those long winter nights, and a nice source of heat on top of your feet in bed during the cold snaps. Our cat Anakin rules the place, as all cats do, but his main job is to keep the mice out of the toasty warm cabin. Our goal is to be completely self-sustaining in our island home, and every year we come closer to that goal. 

Looking after our animals takes priority over all else; we don’t have the choice to not make it home at the end of the day. The dogs, cat, chickens and rabbits all need to be fed and watered.  One cold, blustery winter day in March 2022, I got a reminder of just how important those responsibilities are. Icy cold weather was in the forecast, but conditions picked up well above what was expected. I watched the wind pick up from the small, sleepy bookstore in town, where I work, nervous about the ride home. Our island is only about 10 minutes by boat in good weather, but with the wind chop and blowing rain all day, it was a much slower ride. 

My husband, Skookum, and I approached our anchorage where the canoe was tied, around 100 meters out from the sandy beach. The wind was picking up, and the waves were cresting too high; I knew there was no way I would be able to guide our boat into it. The canoe was bouncing up and down ferociously and was loaded with water from the rain and splashing seas. Even if I could get to the anchorage, the canoe would just sink immediately, and it was too rough to try and haul it onto the boat to dump it out. Other residents on the island either were not home or were working and unable to take over the responsibility of caring for the animals overnight. I had to be the one to make it to shore. It was too rough to keep our boat at the anchorage, but Skookum was strong enough to tie it up at the public docks, and he could sleep in town for the night.

Skookum and I argued quite a bit about other ways to get me to shore. We even tried going around the corner to our neighbors’ bay, but with the tide out, we wouldn’t be able to get far enough in to escape the swell. I persisted. It had to be me. I’m pretty good at knowing my limits and what I can withstand. So, when I decided to swim to shore, in eight-degree-Celsius water with a five-foot shore break, I was nervous but I knew I could do it—or so I told myself, doubts swirling in the back of my mind. There was so much that could go wrong: If I inhaled a mouthful of water or if I was tumbled in the surf, I could get too cold to propel myself to the beach. I have had experiences with cold water immersion in the past, like when I slipped off the front of a skiff during a beach landing and a wave swept my legs out from under me, knocking me to the sand where the next wave washed over me. Skookum wasn’t impressed with my plan, but I think he was so exasperated that he finally just said to hell with it and let me go, knowing he would face my mother’s wrath if something happened to me. 

The author walks along the shore by her island home. Photo by Sam Rose Phillips.

The waves breaking on the beach were five feet high. The cold water would drain my strength and energy within minutes. Skookum exasperatedly tried to tell me we had to call it and go back to town together one last time, but I was insistent I was going to make it. Worst-case scenario, I would fall unconscious from the cold and the wind and waves would eventually push me to shore anyways, where I hopefully wouldn’t drown from the incessant swells and incoming tide. Next door was a marine field station, a 10-minute walk or five-minute run through the forest. I knew Skookum would call them to tell them what was unfolding. Someone would be there to find me. Admittedly, that wasn’t a great worst-case scenario, but it was unlikely. And at least there was a likely rescue if I needed it. I wore an orange keyhole type lifejacket, the kind you put on in an emergency on a ferry or water taxi. It would keep my head afloat and allow me to swim comfortably on my back so I could kick myself to shore. I put my backpack and sweater in a heavy duty garbage bag. It was sealed well with some extra air inside. I left my boots and jacket on the boat. I wouldn’t be taking the time to put my boots back on. If I could still feel my feet, I would be running barefoot up to our cabin, just above the beach.

The garbage bag floated perfectly and upright as well. No water would seep in through my knot. I had no time to question myself once the bag was in the water, but I was glad I had just completed my boating courses two weeks earlier, which included a section on cold water survival. Lifejacket on, I covered my nose and hopped in feet first. This avoids the gasping reflex that occurs when your face hits the cold water first. As my head dipped a foot or so beneath the surface, my feet hit the sandy bottom. I kept the one-ten-one rule in my mind as I began to compose myself: one minute to get my breathing under control, ten minutes of meaningful muscle movement and one hour before losing consciousness. I didn’t really have to think of that last one unless things went seriously sideways. I just focused on breathing. I was doing heavy deep breaths—too deep. Nearly hyperventilating. Slowing my breathing felt impossible, but square—or combat breathing—was the goal. Measured breaths with pauses in between. I kicked forward, still holding my bag to keep it close. I glanced behind me at the beach and wondered if this was an impossible task. Then I shook my head, the wind and waves were pushing me in the right direction. I just had to keep moving. I had to focus on getting to shore. 

The wind ended up being just right; my bag bobbed along by my head, so I let go of it, freeing up both my arms to propel me faster to the sandy shore. I looked back at the beach again. It really didn’t seem any closer. Skookum stayed in the boat offshore, probably trying to figure out how to explain the situation to my parents. I found out later he was calling the field station next door but playing telephone tag. In his worry, the message was jumbled and passed on to our neighbor Julia, who was told that I had fallen overboard by mistake. 

Wave after wave rose and fell until the next wave approaching was towering over me, threatening to break and splash foam over my face. I figured I was nearing the breakers and I could probably stand up now. As it passed by, thankfully not breaking until after it passed me, I reached down with my feet and found the bottom. I was in about four feet of water, but the incoming swells were pulling at my legs, shoving me forward and then trying to drag me back to sea. I never did get my breathing under control during that swim. My throat hurt and I was out of breath. My bag was still close by, so I grabbed it before it tumbled in the surf and began slogging my way in. My feet weren’t quite numb and the wind was at my back, pushing me towards the cabin. No crackling fire waited for me inside, but there was a dry bed and dogs that would be happy to snuggle.  

I stripped down as soon as I got inside, creating a lake on the cabin floor. Towelling off as quickly as I could, I put on my oversized fleece sweater and thick wool socks, before diving under the covers. My smallest dog, Brianna, snuggled under my chin, happy to cuddle after a day home without us. It wasn’t long before the tingle of cold was gone and I got up to make tea and light the fire. Julia had called to say she was on her way over from next door to check on me,  and by the time she arrived, I had water boiling for tea and the fire was beginning to catch on the kindling in the woodstove. She brought two fresh cinnamon buns, the sugar an excellent boost for my system as my adrenaline levels began to fall. 

I moved to this island knowing life would be more exposed to the elements. The storms, the weather, the seasons, everything was raw and layered in awe-inspiring extremes. The payoff was living together on Skookum’s traditional territory, steeped in history and signs of his ancestors. We wanted to make our way here, the first people to live here full time in close to 75 years, despite whatever challenges arrived. Because I swam, I was able to lock the chickens in that night, feed and walk the dogs, feed the rabbits and ensure everyone was looked after in the morning, too. Since then, we have lowered our tolerance for what weather we will leave home in. The risk of not being able to safely get home is not worth the chance of leaving the animals overnight. Living on the land, away from the comforts of town, with roads and stores, requires a sense of adventure that’s not for everyone, but as long as it’s for us, that’s all that matters.

The post The Cold Swim Home appeared first on Modern Farmer.

We hope you can revisit some of our favorite features of the year, and catch up on the stories you missed.

What’s In a (Food) Name?

From oat milk to vegan burgers, plant-based dairy and meat products are gaining traction—and sparking debate over their names. But are consumers actually confused about what they’re buying?

The Legacy of Campbell Soup’s Tomato Breeding Program

How the canned food company helped the Garden State become synonymous with luscious red tomatoes.

A Meditation on Slaughter

What raising and harvesting chickens taught me about killing in the service of living.

Yes, the Government Really Does Stash Billions of Pounds of Cheese in Missouri Caves

The USDA has kept cheese and other dairy products in cold-storage caves for decades. But their purpose has shifted over the years.

In U.S. Prisons, Seeds Are Prized Contraband for Prisoners Looking to Grow Their Own Food

With food inside prisons often dreary and repetitive, some incarcerated people are taking their diets into their own hands.

Could Edible Cactus Be the Next Big Specialty Crop?

Often treated as a weed, prickly pear cactus has a ton of potential. But first, producers need to create a market for the versatile crop in the US.\

Turn Your Backyard Into a Snack Yard With Edible Landscapes

Landscapers are making private and public spaces more useful and planting edible alternatives to traditional plants.

Keeping Chickens Taught Me How to Give a Cluck

Our family’s backyard chickens, acquired in the early days of the pandemic, have shown me how to slow down and rethink my moral principles.

Can Dryland Farming Help Growers Endure Increasing Heatwaves and Drought?

Indigenous practitioners around the world have farmed with only rainwater for millennia. But it’s unclear whether conventional agriculture, which relies heavily on irrigation, will learn any of their lessons.

In Awe of the Pawpaw

Meet the bartender-botanist committed to reviving this humble native fruit.

The post Ten Features to Revisit This Holiday Season appeared first on Modern Farmer.