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“Your sheep
are eating my garden,”
my friend Maggie says. How can that be? I think. My sheep live
on the Rexrode place, six miles from that garden.
“I’ll go find them,” I politely reply.
For years I’ve hauled part of the flock to summer pasture on the
Rexrode homestead in the Laurel Fork area of Highland County,
Va. It’s well worth the 12-mile round-trip drive, mostly on a
narrow dirt road over Lantz Mountain to the top of Middle
Mountain – beautiful. No one lives there except Maggie, the
garden lady, six miles past the old farm and
Skip-who-built-a-boat-in-the-kitchen-and-can’t-get-it-out. He
lives in the valley three miles before it. About 30 families
lived in the Middle Mountain community one time. Alas, it’s cold
there. Tomatoes won’t ripen and the electric company never ran a
line out there. Everyone left. A lot of it is in the George
Washington National Forest now.
Anyway, when I get to the Rexrode place, the sheep greet me,
bleating warm welcomes inside the fence anxiously waiting a
treat of sweet grain. “Hey girls, how ya doing,” I say. They
answer in soft maaaa-aahs. Nope, not my sheep eating her garden,
I think. But then the next nearest sheep are 15 miles away. Two
days later, back home, she accosts me at the post office and in
a controlled voice says, “They’re still getting in my garden and
it’s about ruined.”
“Oh no,” I wince. “I’ll go check again. They were all where they
belong yesterday.”
I drive the 12 miles and check again. All there. Smiling.
Looking for a treat.
The very next day I see Maggie in Blue Grass. She’s really
aggravated. Sheep in the garden again. So it’s another trip over
the mountain for me. This time, Arval Rexrode comes out of the
house, laughing. The sheep are all there, laughing too, and
looking for something sweet.
“I heard your old truck rumbling down the road and looked out
the window,” says Arval, clutching his sides between chuckles.
“Then here come your ol’ sheep thundering up the road. They cut
over the bank and duck through a hole in the fence down in the
corner there. Weren’t a sheep in sight when I came out this
morning.”
People say sheep are dumb. Sheep aren’t dumb, they just have a
different sense of priorities. True, they’re not creative
thinkers, but they have perfect memories and a sense of logic
that makes a lot of sense – if you’re a sheep.
William Lederer gave them a bum rap when he wrote “A Nation of
Sheep.” I mean, if you had four legs ending in hoofs, not claws,
and only eight teeth in the front of your mouth, all of them on
your bottom jaw, what would you do when Mrs. Coyote comes
looking for dinner? Quick! Get in the center of the flock. Put
as many other sheep between yourself and the predator as
possible. Then run in circles and confuse her.
If you put a flock in a pen and try to catch one sheep, it’s the
same story. Try to grab whoever is running past and you can’t.
Like any other predator, you must pick out one and stick with
it. The easiest one to get is the independent thinker running in
the opposite direction outside the crowd.
That’s why a bear ate my Maybelle. This ewe thought she was a
pony. She lived with one for five years before her previous
owner decided she’d be happier with sheep and gave her to me.
Wrong. When I pulled the truck into a field to let her off, 20
or so ewes trotted over to see her. Maybelle ran to the barn and
hid. She reluctantly joined the flock and raised a few sets of
twin lambs, but continuously wandered off inspecting things
irrelevant to real sheep. When the bear wanted to fatten herself
before hibernating, guess who she caught? A neighbor saw it. We
found the remains of Maybelle buried under leaves the next day.
Like elephants, sheep never forget, form strong family bonds and
sometimes enemies. Jennifer never forgave my husband for
removing a can she accidentally wedged onto her foot. She
associated the pain caused by the can with him. For the next 14
years, she ran away when she saw him.
Jennifer was my first sheep, a pet lamb raised on a bottle in
1976. When she was 13 and well beyond her nine-year life
expectancy, I decided to put her on a flat summer pasture
instead of her regular one with steep hillsides. She started
lagging behind the flock. Poor Jennifer, she won’t make it
through the winter, I thought when bringing her home that fall.
But she did. In the spring she somehow ended up on the truck
hauling ewes to the steep pasture. When I let them off the
truck, Jennifer dashed up the nearest hill, kicking her heels up
and bucking like a two-month-old lamb. I can’t swear sheep get
depressed, but they obviously like familiar things. She acted
like any other sheep for two more years until arthritis rendered
her unable to walk.
Once I sold a small group of ewes to a gentleman. Three years
later he sells the farm and asks if I want them back. I go to
get them and he says, “They are in a big bunch on that hill. Can
you can pick yours out if we get them all in a pen?”
Partly in jest, I say, “I’ll just call mine down.” When I holler
“sheeeee-ep,” much to our surprise, they break from the flock
and come running. Onto the truck and home they go.
As before, soon as the ewes at home notice new arrivals, they
come to investigate. Old Eighteen stands on the edge of the
truck bed with a scowl on her face. In the field, Jennifer’s
daughter Muff moves forward with her head lowered. They rush
toward each other and butt heads. Pow!
Oops, I forgot. I never could keep those two in the same field.
They fight, don’t like each other.
Sheep don’t forget – even if shepherds do. |
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The Wool
Market: Little Change Since 1812 |
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 Since the War of 1812, the
race for public favor between wool and cotton had been
fast and furious. Spain’s use of the Merino breed of sheep
gave it a competitive edge early in the running, but
America still held out hope as “Merino Madness” soon
overtook the country.
“I think it not only possible, but probable, that in 10 or
15 years, we may raise more fine wool than all of Europe,”
proclaimed Baltimore editor Hezekiah Niles in December of
1814. “It is proved, that the Merino increases in value on
our soil, and that they are of better quality here than in
far-famed Spain. The fabled golden fleece is really ours,
and in the space allowed…the United States will be the
grand market of the world of wool.”
But the Depression of 1819, its lingering effects on
agricultural prices throughout the 1820s, and debate over
the effectiveness of a protective tariff in 1828 – not to
mention the public’s growing demand for cotton –
intervened. American Merino wool which sold for a high of
46 cents per pound in 1824 dropped to below 32 cents by
1829, as a glut of wool on the world market and cheaper
British imports continued to hold wool’s dominance in
check.
“Wool will scarcely sell at all,” complained a
Pennsylvania farmer in February of 1829. “I may be
flattered to hold out till the next session of Congress –
or else I know of nothing better that I could do in order
to save a little of my former earnings, than disposing of
part of my flock to the butcher, and knock the remaining
in the head and bury them.”
The tariff on woolen goods imported from Europe passed by
Congress in 1832 provided some relief, allowing one New
York farmer to relate by the fall of 1833 that “the
advance on wool in Europe has enabled the domestic
[American] manufacturer to give a fair price for wool this
season.”
But the farmer was, at the same time, cautious, adding
that “The flour mill will continue to grind if wheat is
reduced to 50 cents per bushel – and the woolen mill will
move if fine wool falls to 25 cents per lb. But the wheat
cannot be supplied at 50 cents, nor the wool at 25,
without corresponding reductions in the value of land and
labor.”
It’s a familiar story even today, as many small sheep
farmers throughout the Blue Ridge region are faced with
low prices, dwindling demand and animals that just won’t
“pay for their keep.” Just as in earlier times, a glut of
wool on the world market and the unpredictable cycle of
supply and demand is working against the sheep farmer.
“Historically, say in the last three to four years,
there’s been a good supply of wool on the international
market,” explains Scott Greiner, Extension Sheep
Specialist for Virginia Tech of this all-too-familiar
trend. “It’s as much a global issue as it is a U.S.
issue.”
Wool that today sells for 25 cents a pound, which in the
not-so-distant past would have sold for two-three times
that, is now considered as worthless as it was in the late
1820s. While short of just “knocking them in the head,”
horror stories tell of farmers who are shearing their
sheep, dumping the wool into ditches on their farms and
using it for landscaping.
On the bright side, however, specialty wools such as
cotswold and alpaca continue in great demand, thanks to
hand spinners and a knitting boom that is currently
sweeping the country.
-Gary Winkler
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A Sheep
Country Drive Tour |
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The largest concentration of
sheep in the Blue Ridge is in and west of the central
Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. See if you can spot large
white guard dogs and llamas tucked into the flocks by
shepherds to guard them from coyotes, bears and other
predators. Guard dogs look a lot like the sheep, but
llamas’ long necks make them easier to spot.
Drive time: About 4.5 hours at a leisurely pace –
35-40 mph – not including inevitable stops. Fill your gas
tank. Gas stations are scarce in sheep country.
The loop: Exit 225 from I-81 onto Va. 275 west on
north side of Staunton, Va. About 10 minutes to U.S. 250
west (right.) One hour, 15 minutes to Va. 637 north
(right.) This is the first road beyond Monterey, but four
miles and over Monterey Mountain in the Blue Grass Valley.
Va. 637 merges into 640. Continue north straight through
the village of Blue Grass to U.S. 220, about 15 minutes.
North (left) on U.S. 220 to Franklin, W.Va, about 25
minutes. Take U.S. 33 east (right at light) to
Harrisonburg, Va., about one hour. At this point you may
take the fast-track on I-81 back to Staunton (25 minutes)
or continue your sheep tour at a more leisurely pace and
return to Staunton on U.S. 42 south (right) in 45 minutes
or U.S. 11 south (right) in 35 minutes. More sheep live on
U.S. 42 than U.S. 11. Both return you to U.S. 250 east
(left) to Staunton.
-SH
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Sheep Notes |
- Almost all lambs are
born with very long tails. Shepherds dock lambs’ tails
to prevent hygiene problems caused by grazing lush
pastures.
- White wool is
dominant. A ewe with black wool can have white lambs,
black lambs or both at the same time. So can a white
ewe.
- Most newborn black
lambs grow into adults with white wool, but black faces
and legs.
- The hoofs of sheep
with fast-growing soft fine wool grow faster and are
softer than hoofs of sheep with slower-growing coarse
wool.
- Sheep “language”
includes different baaa-as for “hello newborn baby,”
“Where are you?” “I’m here,” “help!” “hurry up and feed
me,” and “back off.”
- Rams really will chase
people and butt them, particularly people they know.
- Ewes, not just rams,
have horns. Although male hormones influence horn
development, it’s the breed, not gender of sheep that
determines who gets them.
–SH
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I was awakened
from my sleep by the sound of a dog barking –
our dog Lady, announcing to the world that we
had unwelcome visitors approaching. Bolting up
out of bed and opening the bedroom window I
could hear them quite plainly – a pack of
yapping coyotes. Most nights I would lazily
acknowledge them in the distance, but this
time they were closer and more menacing.
Having descended from their rugged hillside
habitat across the valley, they were now on
our side of the creek, at our very gate.
