6.9.26 Field Report

Truth is, spring has been rough on us.

There is no poetic way to say it. It has just been hard.

We had knee-high snow. Then, almost before we had shaken the cold out of our bones, we had a solid stretch of 90-degree weather in March. Then came the wind and that last windstorm had teeth.

And all spring, I have felt like I have been holding my breath.

Walking the rows. Checking the seedlings. Watching the forecast. Watching the sky. Wondering, quietly and not so quietly, heck, is this going to work?

I think anyone who has ever tried to grow something knows this feeling. Whether you are farming ten acres or tucking tomatoes into a raised bed in your backyard, there is this moment in spring where everything feels impossibly fragile.

You get the plants in the ground. You water them in. You do your best. And then the wind comes, or the heat comes, or the cold comes back just because it can, and you stand there looking at all those tiny green things getting thrashed and you know there is almost nothing you can do.

That is the part people maybe do not always see. The anxiety of it. The waiting. The trying not to panic. The strange little bargaining you do with the weather, as if the weather has ever once cared about a farmer’s feelings.

This spring, I have stood in the field more than once with my stomach in knots.

But here we are.

The farm opened this weekend.

And it was incredible.

People came through the farm stand. Friends showed up. New faces showed up. Kids ran around. Folks asked questions and bought vegetables and gave hugs and high fives and encouragement like they were handing us water after a long run.

And I do not know if I can fully explain what that does to us.

Because the stress of farming is real. The stress of starting a small business is real. The stress of trying to grow food in a changing climate, in a high desert valley, with a small crew and big dreams, is very real.

But you make it lighter.

You really do.

Every morning, I am the first one up on the farm. I walk out with my cup of coffee in hand, usually before anyone else has stirred. For that first hour, the place is quiet. The sun starts to rise over the fields. The birds start in. The rows are still cool and soft-looking before the day gets going.

That is when I do my field walks.

I check on the arugula. I look at the lettuce. I peek at the turnips and radishes. I see what made it through the night. I see what needs help. I see what is coming.

And in those quiet morning hours, even with all the worry, I feel it so strongly.

We are so lucky.

We are so darn lucky to get to grow food for this community.

It is a privilege. A real one.

And after this weekend, after seeing so many of you show up for the start of our second season, I have been walking around with a very full heart. All the encouragement, all the kindness, all the laughter, all the “we’re so glad you’re here” moments, they matter more than I know how to say.

Thank you.

You are seen. You are felt. You are part of this place. And we are so grateful for you.

This morning, on my field walk, something felt different.

The nights are finally starting to land in the 50’s. The plants can feel it. I can feel it. The whole field feels like it has unclenched a little.

Things are growing.

The rows are filling in. The greens are standing taller. The fields are starting to look less like a question mark and more like a promise.

And for the first time in a long while, I took a big breath.

It is going to work.

Not perfectly. Farming never does anything perfectly.

But it is going to work.

So here we are, at the beginning again.

Season two.

Thank you for helping us get here.

Love,
Rach