TLC: The Ranch and the Concept

Out south of Watsonville, and inland a little ways from Elkhorn Slough, one of the most scenic parts of the Monterey Bay, sits a pretty little piece of California, preserved in the form of TLC Ranch. I took Logan and Rowan out to meet rancher, Jim Dunlop, whom I've talked to at the Sunday farmers market. It was just a wonderful visit: we spent nearly two hours traipsing around the place. The photo above is the approach to the entrance of TLC Ranch: a neighboring farmer has corn, sunflowers, and some wild and crazy squash that no mere rail fence could contain.

We started with a tour of one of the chicken coops: Jim's raising 500 hens (Bard Rocks and Black Australorps) that won't lay until next year, and he will have $3000-$4000 into the brood by then. On the other hand, his hens will be putting out 50 dozen eggs a day, which fetch $5/dozen at the farmers markets. (I've had these eggs: they are huge, and they are delicious.)

Logan, alas, suffers from the genetic imperative of little boys all over the world: he cannot resist the impulse to run after the birds and make them scatter. All the bribes and threats in the world ("No Raffi in the car if you don't stop, Logan!") didn't work very well. Jim was a great sport, too, and tried to explain to Logan why his strategy was lacking in forethought, but Logan was impervious to reason, and we stepped out of the coop.

Outside again, Jim opened the cap on a 55-gallon white drum and said, "Smell that." I sniffed and thought it smelled like warm yogurt. Jim explained that it was two-day-old milk from Claravale Dairy, which he let sit until it clabbered, and then fed it to the hens he's raising for food (not the laying hens). He said, "Can you imagine how pasteurized conventional milk would smell after two days in the sun?" Yeah, buddy.

Next, we peeked into an abandoned RV that housed a rafter of poults (that's the phrase for a cluster of baby turkeys, folks), and took a look into another shed filled with peeping, just-about-to-turn-butt-ugly baby chickens.

Laying next to one of the buildings was a pile of the biggest garlic I have ever seen in my life. It should be called Pride and Joy garlic: it's been selected from crops spanning ten years. "Oh, Josh Thomas [of Thomas Farm] is after me to sell him some of this stuff," Jim laughed. (He laughs a lot. Why can't more people be like that?)

I know the Thomases love their garlic. Jerry once told me, in his laconic way, "Supposedly there are two hundred kinds of garlic. I don't think I could name them all. We grow about six."

We piled in his van (no seatbelts, no car seat) and bounced down the dirt road to an open pasture, where kites and hawks circled overhead. A large herd of Boer goats were slowly clearing a hillside of all vegetation: they are one of two "rent-a-goat" herds that are helping clear brush in California. The baby goats were bleating, and Logan wondered what was up with that.

These goats are all descendents of a famous buck, Ubora, once owned by Brian Dodd of Sycamore Farms. They are a marvel of industriousness: they clear huge areas with amazing efficiency, and we could see the swath they'd cut across the grass. On the flat valley floor below us, we could see chicken sheds, the pig pen, and a movable fence that held more chickens and two baby cows.

We stopped first at the pigpen: Jim's prized Tamworth (heritage) pig had arrived with a huge hernia that will prevent her from fulfilling her destiny as a sow, and which will instead turn her into a great many platefuls of happy bacon memories for TLC Ranch's loyal customers. There were six baby pigs in all, and yes, their delicate pink skin does sunburn. They're strong little buggers, too: "25 pounds of pressure on my toe" is how Jim described their forceful attempts to eat his shoes. The occasional stray eggs whose date of arrival is unknown go to the pigs, and "that's the only food they'll fight over," says Jim.

The cows, Jersey twins named George and Weezy (pictured here), came from Ron Garthwaite at Claravale Dairy. Weezy might be sterile, which also means she will never give milk, so Jim is raising them as oxen to help him on the ranch. They were beautiful, as are all Jerseys, but skittish about Logan. They apparently didn't remember him from our visit to Claravale earlier in the spring, and skeedaddled every time he approached.

We checked in on all the chickens: the laying ones and the Sunday Dinner ones, shown in that photo pecking at the clabbered milk. They had the oddest bare patches on them, as though evolution had somehow is working in the direction of a pluckless chicken. Some of these dinner hens had been claimed by hawks, and Jim was diligent in capturing the few who'd escaped. "I am not bragging, but I am the best chicken catcher in the world," he laughed. I have absolutely no doubt that this is true: his technique is a combination of stealth and a last-second move that is part dive and part lightning. "You have to grab it like you want it," he elaborated, and that, dear reader, is why you won't see me in the chicken-catching Olympics.

Jim owns several old-timey books on farming and ranching, and one of them praises milk as the single best animal protein to feed chickens, for a host of reasons.

All around us, roosters were crowing, and they drew Logan's admiration, unfortunately. Disaster was averted by grabbing him by his overall straps: he was getting perilously close to a rooster that was giving him the 1000% stink-eye.

Back we went to the top of the hill, and got to see Becky and the baby (well, I saw Fiona's feet peeking out) in the ranch office. Sorry to say that we didn't get to see Adrienne yesterday, but I'll be back. Both Jim and Becky remarked that the ranch is really not at its prettiest, but I am accustomed to the shifting palette that is characteristic of the California landscape. When I'd first arrived in San Diego in August of 1977, all I could see was the brown hills. That was before I learned to see the subtle olives and sages and golds that one sees in summertime here.

All considered, my visit to TLC Ranch was a wonderful one. Jim is abundant in his optimism, good humor, and enthusiasm. He seemed to get younger and younger somehow: don't ask me how that happens. I think the businessman at the farmers market is a country boy at heart, and his love for his life shines like a beacon when you see him in his element.

The boys and I drove slowly away, stopping to take a few more pictures of the valley below. In the shimmering heat of midday, it smelled earthy and green.

Jim has a lot to say about things I care about, and I'll be writing more about him soon. Maybe I can get him to go on another tear about vegans: "Come on. You cannot tell me you are eating outside the animal system. The vegetables and grains you eat uproot and kill birds and all kinds of other wildlife. Please." He said not to get him started, but he was already racing his engine by the time I was laughing my head off at the whole thing.

Thanks to Jim for taking us around. You can buy TLC Ranch products, and Morris Grassfed Beef, at the farmers markets on Wednesday (downtown Santa Cruz) and Sunday (East Cliff Drive). Here is the TLC Ranch listing at LocalHarvest.org.

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Thought for the day: Who'd a thunk it? A poem called "Collecting the Cowpies," by Gary Gildner. And another one called "Watching the Milk Cows," by Sandra Adelmund.

More soon: I've been tagged to do a "meme."