Day 81: Liberty, Warm Nipples, Up-To-Here With Irene, PYO

Day 81: Monday August 25th, 2014.
Rochester, VT to Orford, NH. 56.0 miles.

I woke up at 7 am in my incredibly comfy bed, my head buried deep in a feather pillow, to the sound and smell of bacon sizzling downstairs in the kitchen.  I packed up my things and loaded my bike so that I would be ready to roll out of the farm after the 8 am breakfast.

At 5 minutes to 8 am, I was the first guest of 12 to enter the dining room.  The table was loaded with a feast that would give any holiday family get-together spread a run for it's money.  Giant bowls full of breakfast standards like steaming scrambled eggs, crispy thick bacon, seasoned and browned potatoes, and oatmeal, filled up the middle of the table, along with a pitcher of orange juice, and coffee too.

Then, there were the special treats, like a baked peach pastry dish that was out of this world, and fresh cinnamon rolls.  It was incredible, heavenly, a mirage, an oasis.  I was still wondering what happened, questioning whether or not I was dreaming, about to wake up in a tent pitched behind an abandoned building on the side of the road.  It was real.

The other guests started rolling in.  Several families sat at the table, their origins from all over the U.S., here not just for breakfast, but for an education on life at a dairy farm, and where milk and other dairy products come from.  They were all wonderful people.

And, on this morning, they were absolutely fascinated by this odd addition to the table, a bearded guy who showed up out of nowhere.  Beth grabbed everyone's attention with an announcement, "Good morning everyone, I hope you enjoy breakfast - and we have a special guest this morning - Judd, who is riding is bicycle across the United States from coast to coast, stopping by to visit the farm for one night."

After a brief round of introductions, the floodgates opened, and questions and curiosities rushed out that lasted through breakfast, sometimes the inquisitions crossing paths and overlapping, making it difficult to respond to all.  It was so much fun, and I didn't mind it a bit.  The kids especially, had a lot of great questions, wanting to know about practical matters.  "Don't you get tired?", one young boy asked.  The parents added questions about my experiences.  "Tell us about the craziest person you met.", one asked.

Then, one of the boys asked, "What is your bike's name?"  I was stumped.  I didn't have an answer.  "You know what - I haven't named it.", I said, surprised that I hadn't thought of that before.  I was then given lots of suggestions, including "Cinnamon", and "Big Red Barn".  But, my favorite was "Liberty".  The bike gave me the freedom to experience the USA at the right pace, to be the object of discussion, the piece of steel that would spark conversation, curiosity, and inquisition, encouraging others to express with liberty their right to speak freely.  It is the vehicle by which I have been enlilghtened about the liberties that so many Americans enjoy and appreciate.  It was the means by which I arrived here, at Liberty Hill Dairy Farm.  That was it.  "Liberty".

After breakfast, Bob and Beth's son along with some hired help were getting the first group of 50 cows ready in the barn for milking.  I slipped on my ankle-high bike socks, then slid into a pair of oversized rubber boots to head out to the barn.  On the way, the fog was lifting from the valley over the corn fields.

I headed for the big red barn, the very barn that was the subject depicted in the background, with cows in the front, of a popular piece by Woody Jackson, the artist known for his cow art that adorns every pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream.

As I approached the barn, the kids called to me from the hay loft.  "Hey Judd - Wanna come up here?", they asked with excitement.  "Sure, I'll be right up.", I called back to them.  I had to navigate through the cow staging area and up a ladder to the massive hay loft, full of hay. The kids were fascinated with the pile of hay, jumping all over it, their attention only occasionally diverted away to the litter of kittens and their mom hanging out in the corner.

I felt so privileged to be standing in the loft of this barn, parts of it's bones as much as 227 years old, with the rest 125 years old.  I heard some commotion from below as the cows were being lined up for milking, so I headed back downstairs to catch the excitement.

I was fortunate enough to have a great one-on-one conversation with Bob.  He walked me through the barn, explaining a lot about varous aspects of running a small family dairy farm.  Liberty Hill Farm has about 100 milking cows, plus calves and steer.  Each of the milking cows need to be milked twice a day.  Each cow produces about 4-5 gallons per milking, twice a day.  With 100 cows milked twice per day, they are generating around 900 gallons of milk per day!  

And, their tank is right around a 1000 gallon capacity.  Thus, the milk truck must show up every day to pickup the contents of the tank, or they've got a big problem on their hands.

Of course, for the cows to produce milk, they need to birth a calf.  That won't happen until a cow has matured to 1 year and 3 months of age.  At that age, they are artificially inseminated, with a 9 month gestation period.  At age 2, a cow will deliver it's first calf, and begin milk production right away.  Three months later, they are inseminated again, so that by age 3, another calf is born, and so the cycle is established for a birthing every year, in ideal situations.  This cycle maximizes milk production.

Bob told me the large corporate style milk factories may only keep their mature cow for 2 to 3 years, selling them off to McDonalds for beef, insuring maximum production from their working herd.  At a small dairy farm like Liberty Hill however, the intimate working relationship between the family members that are around the cows day-in and day-out, giving them names, and being able to recognize each one by appearance, allows for a more effective approach, where each cow is monitored, and those that continue to produce well, stay on the farm producing.  The average age here is closer to 6 years of age, with the oldest cow at age 13.  "She continues to be a great cow.", Bob said.  When the production of milk declines, the cows are sold off for beef because it doesn't make economical sense to keep them, especially given that they consume 35 gallons of water per day and 110 pounds of food per day, per cow!

Fortunately, for Liberty Hill, they are located in a place that rains a lot, and they have an artesian well that produces enough water for their needs.  But, the protracted drought that is happening in the Western U.S., has changed the game for the dairy industry in general.  "What's left of the smaller dairy farms in California are moving out, because either there's not enough water available, or it's too expensive to make ends meet.", Bob explained.

And, in general, the drought has created a serious shortage of cows and beef.  Whereas normally Bob and Beth can get $300 to $400 per mature cow that is no longer producing enough milk, sold for beef - Now with the beef shortage it is $2000 per head.  "At those prices, I might not hold onto a cow for as long as I otherwise would.", Bob explains.  The same goes for the young calves born at their farm.  They're fetching much higher prices, and it changes how he manages his herd.

There's a chance for every guest of Liberty Hill Farm to milk a cow.  I had to try it.  I crouched down between her and her neighbor, wary of the swinging tails and poop chutes.  As I grabbed onto one of her nipples, it was warm and filled my hand up completely.  

With a gentle pull, a very fine stream of pure raw milk shot out into the bucket.  It was an incredible experience.  Despite the fact that I am well aware that milk comes from cows, to perform the physical action of manipulating her nipple, hanging down from her expanded udder, to generate such a small amount of milk in a bucket to be consumed by humans, shockingly put things into a whole new perspective.

I tried it for a minute or so, sort of getting the hang of it.  Then, one of the family members was brought in for a lesson on how to do it right.  Ella, at 2 years and 4 months, jumped in as the expert to show how it was done.  She was serious, and she went right to work.

She made it look easy, and she was so incredibly good at it.  I was dumbfounded.

To milk 100 cows twice per day, modern methods are employed to make the process feasible without an army of employees, and to extract more milk than a human could.

A series of vacuum-activated suction cups are applied to each nipple, connected to a hose that feeds up to a stainless steel pipe running across the ceiling of the barn and out to the storage tank.  When a cow is done, the apparatus is disconnected and reconnected on the next one, going down the line.

The cows are relieved of the pressure that would otherwise build up if they weren't milked, avoiding problems that would develop.  Cabot Co-Op, a collection of 1,200 small family dairy farms, including Liberty Hill, buys the milk and advocates on behalf of the small farms.  The Cabot name is well known for it's production of fine Vermont cheeses that are sold around the United States.

Cows aren't the only work at Liberty Hill.  Fields of corn and hay are grown, and their harvest is mixed in with nutrient-rich supplements to feed the cows.  And, the forested hillsides provide the much needed wood to heat the 1824 ranch house.  "I burn between 10-12 cords of wood per winter just to keep the house warm.", Bob said.  But, he explained that the forests grow and regenerate so fast around here that all he has to do is cut the trees that have encroached along the edge of the fields or road to get that amount.

When they first bought the farm 35 years ago, the entire hillside behind the ranch house had been cleared of trees for grazing land.  Since he wasn't using it, the forest has completely regenerated naturally.  "By looking at it now, you would never know that that hill was bare 35 years ago.", he explained with amazement.

Before leaving, I went out to the calf pens to visit a few.  They were adorable.  I met Peach Pie (in the photo below).  Her mom's name is Plum Pie.  The naming convention helps to keep track of the lineage.  

A big talker, mooing frequently was Firefox.  She loved to have her head scratched.  Her mom is Firefly.

Reluctant to leave, but so fulfilled from my experiences at this wonderful place, I said goodbye to everyone and pedaled out the dirt road, over the river, and back to the highway, taking with me a wonderful set of unforgettable memories from my stay at Liberty Hill Dairy Farm.

I continued in amazement over the steepness of the terrain on either side of the narrow valley I was in.  I thought about how dense the tree cover was.

And, I tried to imagine the copious amount of rainfall that must have fallen when Hurricane Irene produced the worst flood in this valley's history.  It wasn't but just a few miles down the road when I spotted a house on the side of the road that was boarded up.

I noticed spray-paint on the siding, and veered over to the shoulder to take a closer look.  A sharp line drawn horizontally wrapped around the corner of the building.  Below, the words "High H2O 2011" on one side, and "Irene 2011" on the other.  It was the level of the water in the valley during the flood.  I wasn't anywhere near the current level of the river.  The river was below me by quite a bit in a channel within the larger floodplain.  

I sat for a minute or two, trying to picture drawing that line out across the valley, imagining the incredible volume of water that was here August 28th, 2011.  The White River was raging.

I descended most of the way to the small town of Bethel, VT.  Because I spent so much time in the morning at the farm, I was already hungry for lunch.  I stopped at the Cockadoodle Pizza Cafe and Soda Fountain.  The pizza, New York Style, was really good.  I ordered a few slices along with a salad and a Black Raspberry shake.  It was a great lunch, and I was ready for another series of climbs for the rest of the afternoon as I made my way through Vermont.

It was hot, and I was working hard to make it over the moutains East of Sharon, through South Strafford, Thetford Hill, and East Thetford.  I finally descended into the floodplain of the Connecticut River and rode across the bridge over the river and into New Hampshire.

I then turned North, following the river on the New Hampsire side, pedaling through a covered bridge.

A bit further, the road was lined with a thick canopy of trees, occasional providing glipses of the broad river to my left.

I was getting closer to the town of Orford, my intended destination for the evening, when I came upon a blueberry field with a "pick your own" (PYO) sign out front.

I've never picked blueberries before.  Having plenty of daylight to make it to my destination, I decided to pull off into the driveway to check it out.  The rows of blueberry bushes were  taller than me.

A set of instructions on the side of a shack at the edge of the field provided tips and guidance for successful picking. It was $2.75 per pound.  Pint containers were provided as well.  I grabbed an empty pint container and headed into the field.  The first few rows of plants didn't have much, but what was there looked, and tasted, delicious.

I worked my way deeper into the field, away from the entrance, and found bushes that were loaded with berries.  Still, it was a tedious process, and slow.  After a good 5 to 10 minutes, I only had a thin layer of berries in my container.  "This is going to take forever!", I thought to myself.  I went even deeper in, and sped up the process as best as I could.  After about 25 minutes, I had an awesome full pint of just-off-the-bush blueberries ready for eating.  

I packed the berries carefully in my handlebar bag and pedaled on through another covered bridge to the town of Orford, NH.  

I had a listing for cyclist-only camping, with a phone number.  But, with no cell service, and no pay phone in sight, I couldn't make the call to arrange to stay. I went inside a corner market to ask if I could use their phone.  They were nice enough to let me.  But, no one answered when I called.  With no way for anyone to return my call, I decided to pick up a few food items at the market and head down a few blocks to the private campground in town.  The campground turned out to be a great place, with a cyclist rate of only $10.  It was the perfect ending to an amazing day.