The Sunset of Lambing Season: Bitter, Sweet, and Loud

 As the final weeks of spring approach, the frantic energy of lambing season is beginning to settle into a steady, rhythmic hum. We are officially in the home stretch: between our two farms, we have 14 healthy lambs on the ground, with only 3 ewes left to go.

The Music of the Pasture

If you’ve never stood in a field during the "golden hour" of a lambing cycle, it’s hard to describe the noise. It isn't just a chorus of bleating; it’s a constant, layered conversation. The pasture rings with the high-pitched, frantic "Where are you?" of little voices calling out to mothers. In return, you hear the deep, grounding, and rhythmic responses from the ewes a sort of vocal anchor that keeps their wanderers in check without the mother ever having to stop grazing.

The energy is infectious. Every little hill is a mountain to be conquered, and every fallen log is a stage for a "king of the hill" match. Watching them race, explore, and test their legs is easily the best part of the job. As the sun dips low and turns the fleece into glowing halos, the chatter reaches a crescendo. It’s a roll call of sorts. You begin to recognize the individual tones: the raspy cry of the rambunctious black lamb who’s always a step behind because she stopped to explore, and the confident, booming answer of her mother who has done this for the last few seasons.

The Hard Choices

But with the joy comes the reality of the trade. As shepherds, we are the guardians of the land as much as the animals, and our acreage has its limits. It is a difficult choice to decide not to keep the next generation. Knowing that these little ones; the ones we helped into the world, or bottle fed all season because their mothers couldn't will soon be heading off to new farms or being slotted for camp is the "heavy" side of farming.

Living in the Moment

We know that soon the grass will be growing faster than the sheep can keep up and the days will stretch long and hot. But for now, we want to stay right here.

We’re soaking up the rumble of early spring thunderstorms, the morning surprise of new lambs tucked in the grass, and the bustle of early-season shearing. Before the season fully turns, we’re simply enjoying the music of a full pasture and the life we’ve helped bring into it.

Requiem of a Rooster

Most people see a rooster and hear a noise. On this farm, when we looked at Squish, we saw a survivor, a gentleman, and the undisputed king of the morning.

Squish didn't arrive here with a long-term lease on life. To be honest, he came to the farm to be a "butcher rooster." His story was supposed to be a short one—a few days of grain and a final Sunday dinner. But Squish had other plans. He looked at the fate laid out for him and decided he was simply too busy running the place to bother with it.

The Bird of Nine Lives

They say cats have nine lives, but Squish must have had a dozen. He survived three separate butcher attempts, looking destiny in the eye and walking away every time. He fought off a raccoon attack and stared down dogs who saw him as nothing more than a meal.

After witnessing that kind of iron-willed tenacity, we knew he wasn't meant for the table. We gave him a stay of execution, and in return, he gave us his absolute devotion. For every single morning we have lived on this farm, Squish was the one who pulled the sun over the horizon. He was our alarm clock, our security guard, and our constant companion.

A Gentleman Among Hens

While some roosters rule through fear, Squish ruled through service. He was a "ladies' man" in the truest, most chivalrous sense of the word. He never ate a choice grub or a kitchen scrap without first calling the girls over with that frantic, rhythmic "tidbitting" cluck. He’d stand back, chest puffed out, watching his hens feast on the best bugs before he ever took a bite for himself.

He showed us that even in a world of "pecking orders," you can lead with kindness and protection.

The Empty Fence Post

Today, the farm feels a little off-balance. The sun came up, but it felt like it had to do the heavy lifting itself this time. His foot prints starting to melt in the last of the winter snow.  The hens are wandering the yard, perhaps wondering why no one is pointing out the best scrap piles or standing guard against the shadows. Even the young rooster, who has been with us for a year, seems hesitant—uncertain now that the heavy crown of the yard has landed on his head. He has big spurs to fill.

Squish taught us that your beginning doesn't have to define your end. He was meant to be a meal, but he chose to be a legend.

Rest easy, Squish. The grubs are plentiful where you’re going, and the sun is always at high noon. We’ll take the watch from here.

The Narrow Path: Lessons from the Sheep Tracks

 The Narrow Path: Lessons from the Sheep Tracks

The 2026 season hasn’t arrived with a whisper; it’s arrived with a layer of glass. Outside the front door of the main house, the world is a sheet of unrelenting ice. If you step off the porch without a plan, you’re down. More than once, we’ve found ourselves skating down the grade with bags of groceries or pails of water, just trying to keep our feet under us.

But if you look toward the pastures, you’ll see the "Sheep Highways"—deep, dirty, brown ruts worn into the snow.

The flocks have figured it out: Shelter to Hay. Repeat. At this point, hauling water feels like a futile effort; the sheep just grab mouthfuls of snow on their trek, ignoring the frozen tanks and the scenic views. They care about the path that keeps them fed and the path that keeps them safe. Even the free-range chickens have joined the movement, bedding down with the warm sheep to wait for extra grain rather than braving the trek to their own house.

Watching them single-file across the ice this morning, I realized that’s exactly where Oddball Shearing and Angry Sheepdog Studio are starting this year.

The Trap of Comfort

It is so easy to get distracted by the "bright and shiny"—the latest social media trends or the political unrest our nation is gripped by. Like the livestock, we tend to get lost in the corners of our warm shelters, unwilling to venture out because we know the effort it takes to reach the "hay" at the end. We get so focused on the ice that we miss the ruts in the snow that we know will get us where we need to be.

To be honest, we had a slow start this year. We let ourselves be pulled away by screens and events we can’t control. But the biggest distraction—the one that really keeps our heads tucked into the shelter—is the realization that M.J. is only a few short months from graduating high school. She’s on the verge of making hard choices. She has her own path; she’s been traveling it for four years, and her siblings seem to be following suit. She is working toward being the matron of her own flock, and she knows exactly where her path leads. As her parents, our heads were in the shelter because we weren't ready. We stopped looking at the path we’ve built over the last four years in Missouri and just stared into the corner of the barn.

Finding the Path Again

If we just turned our heads, we’d see friends we know and love standing in that same shelter, ready to follow the path with us. We aren't walking these ruts alone. Even more so Gavin, Ronan, Danika and Cullin are all looking out on that path too, waiting to make their move.  

The "Sheep Highway" isn't just about survival; it’s about momentum. Whether it's the physical labor of shearing or the creative output of the studio, the work is waiting at the end of the trail. The hay is still there. The community is still there. It may even expand—not because we are working harder, but because our flock has found different trails that lead to hay that is better for them.

M.J. is on own trail, and the best thing we can do is show her how to walk with purpose—even when the grade is slippery and the destination is obscured by a winter mist. If we look back at the porch, the others are not far behind, ready to go left or right or maybe join their sisters path and follow her onto the next journey.

Documenting the Journey

This year, the adults in this venture decided we need to be better at documenting the journey. We need to share the stories of the homesteads, farms, and hobbyists we visit. We need to tell the stories of the "forgotten fleeces" we process and the projects happening right here.

Not because we are trying to benefit from the story but, because so many of you are on this path with us. Watch the first step—it's a doozy!