Trying to Crow

Our new flock of chickens is (knock on wood) doing well.  The 12 chicks that survived the skunk attack are thriving.  Nothing gets into the chicken area anymore except an occasional ground squirrel, tunneling in from a distant location.

Two white Delawares and a Buff Orpington

We ended up with one rooster in the bunch; one of the two surviving Cuckoo Marans.

This week, he started to crow.  Well, started trying to crow.  A mature rooster lets loose with a loud, robust cock-a-doodle-do.  This little guy tries really hard.  But all he manages to eek out is a pretty weak cock-a-a.... and then he rests before trying again.

It's cute.  And I'm trying hard to like him.  We will let him stay as long as he isn't aggressive.  Any aggressive actions toward us, and he will be history.

Unfortunately, he bears a strong resemblance to Calvin, who was a mean barred rock rooster.  Since Marans are a French breed, I've named him Jean-Coque.  I'm hoping that giving him a name will help me like him.

In the meantime, his attempts to crow add an element of amusement to our morning chores.

Two surviving hens from our original flock in front: Amelia, a lagenvelter and an Auracana

Another Chicken Massacre

No gruesome photos.  No photos at all since this occurred at 10pm.  Lucky you.  Not so lucky us.

The chicks had a grand time on Saturday and Sunday, running in and out of the hen house and exploring the chicken run.  After the last massacre, Brett put chicken wire along the sides (sunk into the ground) and across the top.  Some teeny tiny birds squeeze through the wire, and squirrels tunnel in, but other than that nothing gets into the chicken area.

Or so we thought.

Last night I was sitting on the couch, with my feet up, working a puzzle on my iPad and thinking about heading upstairs to bed.  It was quiet outside, with just the sound of crickets and frogs drifting in through the open window.  And then, the sound of chicks chirping joined the crickets -- and then the chirping got very loud.  Odd... the chicks should have been inside the hen house fast asleep.

I assumed one had gone out into the chicken run and couldn't get back in (it is a bit of a jump from the ground to the ledge of the pop-hole in the hen house door).  I put on my clogs and grabbed a flash light, ready to find and rescue the chick.

The beam of the flashlight revealed a skunk, leaping (they don't run, they leap like deer) from one end of the run to the other, chasing chicks.  Chicks were flying through the air, bundles of white, yellow and orange fluff.  I opened the chicken run gate and rushed in (I know, I'm lucky I didn't get sprayed), shouting at the top of my lungs for Brett and screaming "GET OUT!"  It didn't; and Brett wasn't coming -- so I ran back towards the house.  I saw Brett coming around the corner of the garage.

"Are you okay?" he called.

"No! A skunk is attacking the chicks."

The conversation continued as we rushed back to the chicken area.

"How did it get in?"

"I have no idea."

The skunk was gone.  And there were chick carcasses littering the ground.  We opened the hen house door and saw more dead chicks.  We found a few live chicks here and there, and then a group of eight or so huddled in the far corner of the run.  I carried them into the hen house, and locked the door -- with the pop-hole shut.  Between counting the dead chicks as we put them in a bag, and counting the live chicks as I picked them up and moved them, we completely lost count.

I think we lost six chicks.  I counted eleven in a dog pile in the corner of the hen house this morning.  They were clamboring over each other -- so it was very hard to count.

We were up at 5am, first light, to get a better look at the chicken pen.  We discovered how the skunk got in.  It moved the mango and grapefruit sized rocks that blocked the gate, and dug a hole under the gate.  Brett sunk a board and some rocks this morning, and secured them with stakes so they can't be moved.  We like to keep the pop-hole open in the summer when the nights are warm, but we won't be doing that anymore.  At least, not until the chicks are full grown.

The two existing hens were roosting on the top rung of their roosting ladder.  They didn't move a muscle.  They are survivors, those two.

This mountain living, on the edge of the wilderness, is beautiful -- but it sure is difficult.

Turn 'em Loose

The chicks, that is.  They are getting big, to the stage where they look more like dinosaurs than chicks.  Last weekend, with the help of some friends who were up for an oak tree demolition work day, we moved the brooder box into the hen house.

We knew that the weather was going to be warm and that, combined with the chicks having grown out some feathers, meant that they would be okay without a heat lamp.  It took four of us to carry the box, one on each side, and even so we had to stop and rest a few times.  The chicks, inside, were chirping like mad.  Another person walked with us carrying the chick's waterer and the bricks on which it sits.

The brooder box has been sitting in the hen house since then, getting used to the sights and sounds of life with the two hens and whatever other critters visit (squirrels tunnel into the area regularly).  We wanted the hens to be bored with the whole idea of chicks before we let them loose.

We lifted the chicks out of the box, where they promptly huddled together in the corner.

A few hours later, the chicks were starting to spill out the door of the hen house into the run.  They didn't venture far.  The two hens were on patrol.

Periodically, one of the hens chased the chicks back inside and then ran around inside, squawking at them.  As soon as she left, the chicks spilled back outside.

It seems to be going very well.  And the chicks are endlessly entertaining.

The Chicks are Here

After the bobcat decimated our flock, I ordered chicks online from the company we have been using for many years.  Breed selection is limited before April so I ordered chicks who would be available after that date.  A couple of the breeds I wanted were sold out until May -- so we didn't receive our order until yesterday.

Yes, they come in the mail.  They are shipped from Minnesota, priority mail.  They left the hatchery Monday night and arrived at our post office Wednesday morning, early.  Brett jumped in the car and went down to fetch them while I put the finishing, welcoming touches on their brooder and turned on the heat lamp.

Brett returned home with our box of chicks.

They were smushed together in the small box, but all alive and chirping like mad.

We put them in their brooder, in Lucy's stall, after dipping their little beaks in water to encourage them to drink.

I also mixed up some bright green goo -- a mix that provided hydration and an energy boost to help with recovery after their journey.

So far, they are all doing great.  All 17 of them.  Brett and I negotiated on the number of chickens; I wanted fewer, he wanted more.  He won that negotiation -- which is funny because I am a contract negotiator.  You can't deny a man his chicks, though.  And Brett does love chicks.

We have a mixed group of our favorite breeds: Rhode Island Red, Aracaunas, Cuckoo Marans, Buff Orpingtons -- and a new one: Delawares.

The List is Growing

The list of projects around the ranch was overwhelming when we moved in.  We methodically got to work, starting with the most pressing issues and working our way down.  We had finally reached the point of "would be nice" projects; instead of "urgent" such as water leaking through the ceiling.

And then the storm hit.  Although, our property held up pretty well with the streams filling, but not rising above their banks, we did sustain some damage.

And, of course, there was already the issue of having to do something about predators getting into the chicken pen.  Here is our little flock of three: two hens (you can see the tip of the tail of one behind the back post) and Calvin, the rooster.

And, then there is the family of rats that built a nest under the hen house and have now moved inside -- making a big nest in one of the nesting boxes.  I poked the nest with a stick and three rats ran out, up the walls, and into the rafters -- where they watched me destroy the nest.

We finally got a break in the rain -- four days of cold sunshine.  Brett has been busy putting chicken wire over the entire chicken run.  Saturday we worked outside all day -- I was busy pruning the orchard and my roses while Brett wrestled with chicken wire.

Of course, there is the matter of the fallen oak tree.  Brett put up new fence rails and we moved the girls back into their pasture.  Pistol has been picking her way through the twigs and brambles to get to the big limbs, where she nibbles on the moss that covered much of the tree.  Lucy followed her in but didn't like the feeling of all the branches around her legs -- and didn't seem to like the taste of moss as much as Pistol.  Mostly, they have been enjoying the sun.  All the animals are doing a lot of this.

The rain also made a mess of our driveway, which was on the "list" but under "would be nice" and not urgent.  It isn't urgent now, but its definitely made its way up the list.  The driveway is paved with asphalt and is full of dips and mended holes.  It looked... shall we say, rustic.  Now, it is missing a chunk, the sides have eroded and there are pot holes.  So, this summer we will have to have that fixed.

The biggest damage, other than losing the trees (the oak took out two trees when it fell, plus pushed another partway over), is our bridge.  The bridge crosses the stream and connects the house and barn side of the stream to the girls pasture and compost piles.  We cross the bridge with the horses, going back and forth to the barn.  Brett crosses the bridge with his tractor when he moves compost.  And, there are times when he needs to take his truck across as well.  The bridge has always been narrow, with room for the tractor but not really wide enough for his truck.  Now, the sides have eroded -- on both sides of the retaining wood sides and there is a deep hole dead center.

Brett spent most of last night, awake, thinking of the best way to re-build the bridge. He is hoping to finish up the chicken coop before the next storm hits on Wednesday.  The next dry spell after that will be dedicated to the bridge.

Project Priority List:
1. Chicken coop
2. Bridge
3. Upstairs bathroom (already gutted, we decided to remodel it before the big storm hit)
4. Tree removal (this will take years)
5. Driveway

Lucy is interested, as always, in our activities.  Nosy thing that she is.

Crying Over Chickens

I've seen bobcat tracks in the snow around the chicken pen and, even after the snow was washed away, Kersey was sniffing around the perimeter in the mornings.  We were feeling kind of smug about it; our chickens safe inside and the bobcat pacing outside.

Until this morning.  We found one dead chicken and the carcass of another.  Picked clean.

I looked in the hen house and the two remaining hens were sitting on the highest rung of their roosting ladder.  Our beautiful black Andalusian rooster, Lord Byron, was a few rungs down, severely wounded.  I don't know if he will make it.  Calvin, the other rooster, was making quiet clucking noises from his perch on the nesting boxes.  When I opened the door, he went out into the run, spread his wings and crowed for all he was worth.

The two hens that were killed were favorites: Dixie Chick and my last Cuckoo Maran.  Plus the wounded rooster, Lord Byron, who is so beautiful and sweet.

I am certain it was the bobcat.  Brett has wire panels covering the sides and the top of pen, and chicken wire going partway up the sides.  The panels on the side have very small openings; four inches square.  On the top, the new panels are also 4" square but there are some older panels with larger openings, 4" x 6".  I think the bobcat climbed the side and squeezed through one of those larger openings.  It took him a few weeks to find a way in, but he was ultimately successful.

I moved the water bowl into the hen house and waited for Calvin to go back inside.  It took awhile, he wandered around in the rain for quite awhile before a thunderclap and heavy downpour drove him back inside.  Dixie Chick and the Cuckoo Maran were his hens.  I closed the door to the hen house, and the little pop-up door as well.

I don't cry often or easily, but I found myself fighting - and then giving in - to tears.  We have worked so hard to keep our chickens safe and I feel like we failed them.  Brett feels badly about the larger openings on the top panels; but we both agreed, at the time he installed them, that no animal could get through.

Between the loss of the tree and the loss of the chickens, its been a sad week at Oak Creek Ranch.

The Chickens' Christmas Gift

After the bobcat killed  many of our chickens, we kept them locked up in their hen house while Brett secured their enclosure.

Fortunately, the hen house is large -- a converted shed -- and with just four hens and two roosters, there was plenty of space.  But, still, even with windows, its a dark and dreary place to spend days on end.  They were warm and sheltered, but we still felt badly for them.

Brett bought wood and panels of wire fencing so he could extend the cover.  He put in posts, wood framing, and the painstakingly cut the wire panels to fit around the tree and under the hen house eaves.  He worked on it everyday last week, that it wasn't raining -- so, maybe half the days.  Christmas Eve day was icy cold and cloudy, but it didn't snow.  Brett hauled out his tools and finished up the cover while I prepped food for our open house that afternoon.

When he finished, we opened the door and the chickens came scurrying out into their yard.  They happily pecked and scratched, stretching their legs, before returning to the shelter and warmth of their house.

It was a great gift for both the chickens and for me.  The cover looks great and the hens are safe and happy.

From Thirteen to Four

Four hens -- that's all we have left.  Out of our flock of 13 hens and two roosters, we now have four hens and two roosters.

One of the victims. 

We lost some of them to some mystery disease or the cold; but not all of them.  Some of the chickens became lethargic and, after a few days, they died.  Some of them had bloody necks and you may remember that I found drops of blood on Calvin's comb a few times -- and accused him of playing a part in the hens' death.  It seems he did play a part; but not the one I thought.

He was trying to protect the hens, is my guess.

Today was very cold.  Last night we had a hard frost (temperatures below 28F for more than five hours).  This morning, the frost was so thick that it looked like snow.  I used a big piece of wood to smash the ice that had formed on the horses' water troughs.  We did the chores quickly and then scurried back into the warmth of the house.

I spent the afternoon baking Christmas cookies.  My kitchen window looks out over my garden, to the chicken area, and the dressage court further out.  As I was baking, I heard the chickens squawking and looked out the window.  I called to Brett, who was watching football and eating peanut butter toast, in the other room.

"I think the chicken who was ailing must have died.  The rest of the chickens are huddled in the corner, squawking like mad -- just like they did when the first chicken died."

Brett went out and, sure enough, the chicken was dead.  But she wasn't in the hen house, in the corner where she has huddled for the past week.  She was laying outside, and her neck was bloody.  We hoped that the other chickens hadn't pecked her much; since if the chickens are getting sick, we don't know if it is contagious.

I continued with my cookies. Brett continued with his football.  Kersey slept by the wood-stove on her bed.

Not even an hour later, I heard more squawking.  Looking up I could see grey furry ears and chickens flying around their area.  I slipped on my clogs and went out the door.  There was a bobcat in the chicken area, and it had one of the chickens.  When it saw me in the garden, it turned and went up and over the fence -- by the gate, where it isn't covered.  I came back inside the house and got Brett.

Meanwhile, the bobcat jumped back into the chicken area and went back to the chicken it was planning on having for dinner.  It gave me a dirty look as it climbed back out and walked towards the girls' pasture.  It wasn't a large bobcat; about as tall as Kersey.  It looked like a large domestic cat; with a bobbed tail, spots, and very long legs.  Just past the bridge, it paused and looked over its shoulder at me.  Brett came around the corner, by the hen house, with his gun.  The bobcat took one look, and disappeared into the pasture, and then under the fence into the blackberry bushes.

The chicken was almost dead - we thought it was dead at first.  Brett killed it and then removed it from the area.  It had the same bloody neck that two of the other chickens have had.  So, it seems that Calvin has been attacking the bobcat and running it off.  Maybe he's a good rooster after all.

Meanwhile, the remaining chickens are closed up in the hen house.  Brett has his thinking hat on; the one that figures out the details of projects on the property.  We will replace the flock in the spring, but need a way to cover the chicken area completely and keep them safe.  Three quarters of the run is covered now, leaving the area right around the oak tree open.  Clearly, that needs to be covered somehow as well.

I have to admit that despite being a very self-sufficient girl, who isn't overly sentimental, and isn't in the least bit girly --- my heart went all fluttery watching Brett stalk that bobcat.  After he took care of the second dead chicken, and put his gun away, I gave him a hug.  "What was that about?" he asked.

"You were so manly out there." I said.

Words cannot express how much I love this man.

All photos by Steve Neely

Sorry Calvin

It seems I have accused Calvin, the rooster, of a crime he did not commit.

You may remember that Calvin and four or five hens were huddled outside, in the dark and cold, on Saturday when we found a dead hen in the hen house.  All the chickens outside were very subdued; lethargic even.  Calvin was quiet and not his usual blustery self.  There were a few drops of blood on his comb and wattles.  I immediately accused him of murder.

Wrongly, it seems.

It is not unusual for Calvin to be a bit beat up.  He gets into it with Lord Byron, our other rooster, on a regular basis.  Usually, Calvin immediately retreats when confronted, but not always.  And then he gets a bit bloody.  He is a good rooster in the sense that he is protective of his hens -- Lord Byron has most of the hens in his flock, but Calvin watches over the hens who have the lowest standing in the flock.

Sunday morning, when we opened up the hen house there were no more fatalities.  But, there were two hens inside who showed no interest in moving.  Another hen drooped in a corner of the chicken run; not running, not eating, not moving when I prodded her with my finger.

I was concerned.  I researched chicken diseases since I am convinced that there is some kind of virus moving through the flock.  Most chicken diseases are respiratory in nature.  None of our hens are coughing, or have drippy beaks.  From a respiratory standpoint, they seem fine.  I checked them for spots on their combs (there is virus related to the chicken pox that poultry get) but didn't see anything conclusive.  Over the course of the day, they perked up and all of them were scratching and pecking by Sunday evening.

Monday was similar.  No more chickens have died.  If it is the poultry pox, most of the flock will survive and then they will be immune for the rest of their lives.  Most virus' are carried by wild birds -- and there are wild birds in and out of the chicken run constantly.  Free food -- why would they pass that up?

Today, Brett said there were three hens who wouldn't come outside when he fed a big bucket of scraps.  I'm afraid we are going to lose more chickens before this is over.

Treatment is non-existent for poultry pox; either they make it or they don't.  So, we will wait and see what happens.  Hopefully, we won't have a significantly smaller flock when this is over.

Chasing Chickens in the Dark

Every evening, when the sun disappears behind the hills and dusk settles heavy in our valley, the chickens make their way into the hen house for the night.  Then we close their door and they sleep, snug and safe, until the morning when we re-open the door.

Tonight, Brett and I finished up chores before dark.  Brett jumped in his truck and headed to the feed store to get me a bale of straw.  Next week is going to be very, very cold and I want to deeply bed the goat shelter.  When he returned, it was dark.  I heard the truck pull in, and a few minutes later Brett opened the back door and called to me.

"The chickens are outside the hen house, in a corner of the chicken run, and they won't go inside."

That was very strange chicken behavior.  It wasn't dusk, or barely dark, -- it was dark, dark.  Chickens don't like to be outside in the dark.  I put on my boots, gloves and jacket, and handed the flashlight to Brett.  We walked to the chicken area, with Kersey trailing behind.

Sure enough, four or five hens were huddled with Calvin in the far corner of the chicken run.  We could hear some clucking coming from the hen house as well.  Brett stepped into the hen house, and then said, "There's a hen on the floor.  I think she's dead."  Stepping behind Brett, I could see one of the two Cuckoo Maran hens on the floor.  She was clearly gone.  I carried her to the barn where I could see in the light that she had some blood on her neck.  Brett wondered if she had fallen, I wondered if there had been a fight.

Back in the chicken run, I picked up a couple of the hens and carried them into the hen house.  I was surprised at how docile they were.  We haven't handled the chickens in this flock, unlike the chickens we had when the kids were at home.  Camille, in particular, used to pick them up all the time.

One of the docile hens (photo by Steve)

We were left with two flighty hens and Calvin.  He wasn't moving much, or trying to protect them (despite them huddling behind him, against the fence).  There was blood on his comb and his wattles.  Calvin tends to be very rough with the hens so I suspect he was too aggressive with the dead hen, or she resisted, or both.

Calvin (photo by Steve)

The cuckoo marans are the only hens that are laying eggs right now.  We have been getting three or four eggs a week.  I love these hens; they are good layers, they are docile, and their eggs are a deep chocolate brown.  The hens, themselves are a dark grey with black stripes.

One of the Cuckoo Marans is on the right, in front of Calvin, in this picture

I'm more than a bit irritated with Calvin at the moment.  We've tried banishing him from the chicken run and hen house, leaving him to roam the property at liberty.  But he crows all night long.  I'm not kidding.  All night long.  We need to figure something out, though.  We can't keep losing hens.

Free Range Chickens

Brett and I were home all day today, working outside.  I decided to open the door to the chicken run and let the chickens forage in the open.

I wasn't worried about them laying their eggs in secret places because they've stopped laying for the winter.  Between Brett, me and the roosters I figured we could keep an eye out for hawks.

The chickens were thrilled.  Initially, they stuck pretty close to their run.

Then they ventured further out.  The Lakenvelder immediately nabbed a baby rat.  Lakenvelders are exceptional foragers and she certainly lived up to her breed's reputation.

As I watched her running back and forth, with the little rat dangling from her beak, I couldn't help but think it was karma.  A rat killed one of the baby chicks.  A chicken killed a baby rat.

Dixie Chick is all grown up.  She's a lovely hen, don't you agree?

The chickens scratched in the leaves, ate green grass, and dug for worms by the stream bed until dark.

They had a very good day.

My Least Favorite Barn Chore

Every fall, I shovel out all the shavings that have accumulated in the hen house over the past year, and replace it with new.  I shovel the shavings, dirt, chicken poop and feathers into a small trash can and then dump it in a far corner of the pen where it can compost.  I fill the trash can over and over and over again.

Fine dust coats my clothes, my shoes, my hair and I sneeze dirt for hours afterwards.  A number of years ago, when Camille was in high school, she volunteered her boyfriend to help me.  Poor guy.  I sure appreciated his help, though.

It's gross.  Every third or fourth trash can full, I sit on a rock with my back against the tree and catch my breath.

After it is clean down to the plywood floor, I add fresh shavings in the nesting boxes and on the floor.

Throughout the year, I scoop out wet shavings and chicken poop from the nesting boxes and toss it on the floor.  By the following fall, it is quite deep.  Some of the chickens roost on the ladders Brett built, but some of them sleep (and poop and pee) in the nesting boxes.

The chickens are molting right now so we aren't getting many eggs; some days we get one; some days none.  When the chickens molt, they loose all their feathers and grow in new ones.  The floor of the hen house was covered in feathers before I cleaned it out.

While the chickens are molting, all their energy goes into growing new feathers.  They have no energy left over for laying eggs.  The process can take three months.  Our beautiful chickens look pretty ugly during the process; like they got in a fight with a coyote or something.

Fortunately, they don't all start and stop at exactly the same time.  But, they all molt October-ish so that is when the egg production plummets.  We have two hens that hves finished the process and they are gorgeous, with shiny new feathers.  One of them is pictured, snuggled into a nesting box, above.  She layed an egg right after I took her picture.  I'm hoping the other chickens finish up molting soon as well.  We are running mighty low on eggs.

Lost a Chick

God damn rats.

There, I said it.  I don't swear, as a rule, but I am angry.  It was irritating when the rats ate the fruit in my orchard, and maddening when they took up residence under my tomato plants and took every single tomato.  Now they've gone too far.

Yesterday, when Brett went to the chicken pen to collect eggs, there was only one chick.  He couldn't find any sign of the other one anywhere.  I looked when I got home, as well.  This morning I found the chick's feathers scattered around the mouth of the hole the rats dive down when I catch them in my tomatoes.

We have shown the rat hole to Passage.  She is unimpressed and promptly slips through the garden fence and returns to the barn.

Brett is buying traps today.  I hope the remaining chick survives while we work on eliminating the rats.  I don't know how successful we will be; rats are notoriously difficult to eradicate.  I really thought that with two roosters and an attentive hen, those little chicks were safe.  

Chick Update

Mama Hen stayed on the nest long enough to hatch two of the ten eggs she had been sitting on.  The second chick was actually hatched by another hen who has been tag-teaming with Mama, because Mama had already relocated to the hen house floor with chick number one.  The second chick peeped away from the nesting box for awhile and then made its way to the floor where it joined Mama and the other chick.  We tossed the remaining unhatched eggs and the empty egg shells from the two chicks, one a dark brown egg and the other green, into the garbage can.

We know that one chick is half Cuckoo Maran and the other is half Araucana.  We don't know which rooster is the dad but if I had to guess I would say the Cuckoo Maran's father is Calvin, a barred rock.  He's second in command and the two Cuckoo Maran hens belong to him.  The other ten or eleven hens (I lose count) belong to Lord Byron, a Blue Andalusion.  If either of these chicks are hens, it will be fun to see what color egg they lay.  The Cuckoo Maran chick will be some shade of brown since mom lays chocolate brown eggs and Calvin's breed lays large light brown eggs.  The Araucana chick will be more interesting since mom lays greenish-blue eggs and Lord Byron's breed lays white eggs.

Mama Hen is turning out to be an excellent mother.  She rests in the shavings on the hen house floor with the chicks tucked under her wings.  They come out to eat and drink, under her careful supervision, and then scoot back underneath her.  Most of the time, the chicks are out of sight but every once in awhile we see them.  Mama Hen coos and clucks to her little brood and glares at any other hens that dare to come close.  They have been giving her a wide berth.  Both of our roosters are very protective of their hens so I don't think she will have any trouble from the rest of the flock.

I'm hoping that our little family ventures out more soon so I can share pictures with you.  The Cuckoo Maran chick is black with a little white spot on her head and the other is black, with no spot.

Baby Chick!

A day or two ago I swore I heard peeping coming from the nesting box where our barred rock hen has been sitting, patiently, for three weeks.  But, I didn't see any chicks the next day so figured I was imagining things.

This afternoon, I went in to collect eggs and there was a little chick standing next to the hen, peeping away.  It didn't look stressed and the hen was cooing in a most matronly way.  Its very dark in the hen house, and even darker in the nesting box, so I don't have a picture to share.

I called to Brett and we crowded around the newborn, admiring and congratulating the hen.  There is plenty of feed that falls to the floor so the chick(s) will be fine for food.  Mama hen will teach them how to eat.  The chicken water is up high, in a tall tub sitting on a concrete block, outside the hen house.  The chick would never reach it so I hung a chick waterer low, within reach, in the hen house.  Brett is going to put a ramp of some sort from the nesting box to the floor of the hen house so the chicks can get down when mama gives the high sign.

I don't know if anymore will hatch, or even if this one will survive, but we are very excited nonetheless.  I promise to share pictures as soon as I am able and, in the meantime, I'll keep you posted on the progress.  This first chick hatched from a dark brown Cuckoo Maran egg.  Most of the eggs under the hen are either dark brown or green; it will be fun to see what we end up with.

Random Friday

1.  One of our chickens has gone broody.  She has been sitting in the nesting box for a week now, fluffing her feathers in a matronly way, and settling in for the 21 day incubation period.  Initially, we tried convincing her to leave the eggs so we could collect them but she was rather violent in her defense of her nest.  We decided to leave her be and see if any of them hatch.  We value our fingers and our arms -- and baby chicks would be very cute.  This morning, she left the nest for a couple minutes to grab a quick meal and poop.  I ran into the hen house and counted the eggs -- six eggs, a mixture of white, brown and green eggs.

2.  Between the very hot days and the brooding chicken, our egg collection has dropped to one or two eggs per day -- and some days there are none.  I do not know if the other hens are adding to the pile under the Cuckoo Maran.  Today was the first day I happened to be in the area when she left the nest so I could count.  I put a couple wood eggs in the other nesting boxes to encourage the hens to lay there.  Since then, we've gotten two eggs -- and one of the wooden eggs has disappeared.  It isn't under the nursery nest and it isn't in the boxes.  Very odd.

3.  My dressage trainer, Sandy Savage, was in a riding accident about a week ago.  A horse she was training spooked and lost its footing coming out of the arena at Sandy's barn.  The horse fell on her, fracturing her leg, and she smashed her head on the ground.  Thank God she was wearing a helmet.  She suffered a severe concussion, and seizures, and spent some time in the trauma unit.  She is home now but her recovery is going to take awhile.  Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers as she heals and returns to teaching (from the ground initially, of course).  She is hopeful that she will be well enough to return to the barn and start lessons again in a week or so.  This was not a naughty horse, it was not going rodeo on her (and I've seen her stick like glue to horse doing that... ahem, Winston).  It was a simple spook, a slip and a horrible fall.  Please, please, PLEASE always wear a helmet when you ride.  If Sandy had not been wearing her helmet (and she always does), she would not have survived the fall.

4.  Camille flew up Wednesday afternoon so we could go to the Dixie Chicks concert together.  Back in the 90s, and early 2000s, we were hardcore fans.  Camille sang "Travelling Soldier" in the shower and begged me to hit repeat when we played my CDs in the car.  I named our goat, Cowboy, after the song "Cowboy Take Me Away" (its his registered name).  It was over 100F when we drove to the outdoor amphitheater north of Sacramento, but thankfully cooled off to 98F while we stood for an hour in line.  My foot, in its air-cast boot, was not impressed.  The concert was well worth the wait and the heat, though.  They played all of our favorites and we sang along at the top of our lungs.

5.  I took Thursday as a vacation day at work.  I knew that Camille and I wouldn't get back home Wednesday night, after the concert, until the wee-hours of the morning.  Thursday was another very hot day so we loaded up the kayaks and headed to Bear River Reservoir, one of the few lakes that rents kayaks on weekedays.  Our plan was for Brett and I to use our kayaks, and for us to rent one for Camille.  Unfortunately, all they had available was a two-person, tandem kayak.  So, we left my kayak sitting on top of the car and I joined Camille in the tandem.  It all started out okay...

But then the kayak started taking on water in the back, where I was sitting.  We tried sloshing it out the side but the top of the kayak side was sitting at water level so any shift in weight, or ripple on the water, brought more in.  A speed boat went by and we came very close to capsizing in the wake.  An hour of paddling down the lake, we found a sand bar.  Camille transferred her camera, my Fitbit, and my water bottle to Brett's kayak.  We dumped the water out of our kayak, and got back in.  We hadn't paddled more than a few feet and it was already full of water.  And then we did capsize.  Camille and I swam (my foot was not happy) to shore, pushing and pulling the half-submerged kayak.  Brett paddled back to the marina.  The little bit of beach we found on the steep, rocky shore, was at a campground.  Camille and I beached the kayak, grabbed the paddles, and started walking back to the marina.  Camille asked people in the campground if we were going the right way and they told us we were crazy to walk... the marina was three miles away.  And I didn't have my walking boot, just boat shoes.

Meanwhile, Brett paddled like mad, making it back to the marina in half the time it took us to get out to where we capsized.  He stashed his paddle in the car, prayed that no one would steal his kayak from where he left it near the dock, got directions to the campground from the office staff and set out to find us.  Thankfully, my foot wasn't hurting as Camille and I trudged up the dusty, hot dirt road.  We were thrilled to see Brett, coming to our rescue, after we had gone a mile or so.  Back at the marina, we gave staff directions to the crippled kayak, loaded up Brett's, and went off in search of ice cream.

Random Friday

1.  Goldfish questions answered: We do not feed the goldfish.  They live on algae, mosquito larvae and bits of hay that wash off the horses' lips when they drink.  There are around 5 fish in each water trough.  We have rocks or concrete blocks at the bottom of the trough so the fish have a place to hide from predators and to hibernate during the winter.  The water in the troughs does get a layer of ice on cold winter nights and the goldfish disappear into their beds once the water gets really cold.  It's a good system and watching the goldfish swim around makes me happy.  I don't know why I love watching them, but I do.  Sometimes they will swarm around the horses' lips while they are drinking, looking for food.  Flash doesn't like it.  He always swishes the water around by swinging his head through the water before he drinks.

2.  Fall is in full swing in the garden.  The last bloom of roses brings a splash of pink in a palate otherwise dominated by gold, orange and red.

3.  Pistol is looking great.  She'll always be a stocky horse but muscle is starting to be more pronounced than fat.  When we ride, she and Brett spend a lot of time at trot and canter.  I'm not sure how much regular riding she will get with winter coming on, but the foundation is set and she is thriving.

4.  We had a wet, cold storm system come through earlier this week.  We decided to try putting Jackson in the covered round pen and put Pistol in his stall.  Jackson is the most independent of the horses; he marches to his own drummer and doesn't mind being alone (as much).  Also, the round pen stays bone dry whereas the stalls have run-outs which get wet and muddy.  The drier we keep Jackson's feet, the better he does.  Brett lugged a big black rubber water trough into the round pen and filled it with water for Jackson.  When he went outside the pen to turn off the water, Kersey ran in and jumped in the water trough.  Brett scolded her for splashing and swimming on a cold overcast day and for making a mess in the round pen.  Kersey just looked at him and thumped her tail.

5.  The chickens are still molting.  I did some research and learned that molting can last up to three months.  Aack!  We haven't had any eggs from the chickens in the past two days.  We might be reduced to - choke - buying eggs if they don't start laying soon.

6.  Autumn on the ranch.  One of my favorite times of year (after spring).