Musings on our lives as urban farmers.parents.citizens.humans

Winter Solstice

December 2018

Living in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains brings us a full four-season existence.  We rejoice in the winter-spring-summer-autumn cycle, consciously connecting to the changes each sunrise brings.  

Every season brings it's own classic display of greatness.  Oftentimes we try to guess when we're in the peak of the season -- is the ground frozen? how many millions of tree buds exist right now? is this the hottest day we will feel this year?  aha! the autumn winds are cleaning out the trees!  It's literally and spiritually centering to stand in the full expression of a season with courage and gratitude.  And it can be a relief when we feel ourselves moving into the next stage, ready for warmer days or cooler weather or whatever it is that keeps us moving forward. 

When winter solstice arrives, it's such a celebration.  A beginning!  Earth's axis tipping this way, then that.  Lots of candles and warm drinks.  We know snow's silence is near, that winter is coming.  The nights can get no longer.  The sun's warm rays will stay with us just a few moments more each day.  

Do you feel these shifts, these changes around you?  We, each of us, has the tiniest internal see-saw calibrating the dance of light and heat, night and cold.  It's science.  And it's so much more.  It's the deepest of human desires to grow again, to be warm, to know the darkness will not win. 

The Fallow Season

November 2018

Days grow shorter, nights longer. We wake up long before the sun and look out upon a quiet field. Hardneck garlic cloves are tucked inside their blanket of soil, dormant until spring when they sprout fragrant green scapes.

But not yet. Not yet.

Now is the time to breathe in, gather some rest, and daydream about what to grow next season. It's time to light a fire in the wood stove and spend an afternoon sharpening tools, threshing seed pods, scraping beehive frames. Time to wonder if the raspberry canes we were gifted (thanks, Larry) will give fruit next summer and if our traps will hold the good fortune to attract another swarm.

So warm up a mug of tea, fill 'yer belly with soup, have a game night and know that the best is yet to come.


Our gratitude to all who supported local agriculture in 2018 -- whether it was Lost Creek Micro Farm or somewhere else -- for you are the visionaries. You are living the change you wish to see in the world.  


February 2018

There's something reverent - grounding - humbling - motivating about placing a seed in soil and watching it grow.

Between the furrows we find equal parts science and mystery, live in the space between control and surrender,

and play roles that turn from participant to witness

then back again.

Over the years, we planted ourselves into larger and larger gardens, adding bees, then chickens. We learned lessons from the earth-stained hands of relatives, friends and guides; gained encouragement from those who know our hearts and see we're at our best in the field; and stay inspired by hungry and curious neighbors.

And when our kids and their friends ask for farm chores, we know we're on to something good!

Welcome to Lost Creek Micro Farm.

Visit us! We may grow something you fancy. You may be invited to eat a flower.

And if you're in the neighborhood and you see us in the field,

give a little beep!beep! or a Hey you!

~ Chris & Diana ~


February 2019

Check back soon xo

Chickens 3.1

January 2019

Baby Chickens on the Way!

All chicks are certified for breed and will have a pullorum certificate.  

Look for more information in the coming months...


Whiting True Green

Whiting True Blue

Partridge Cochin

Silver Laced Wyndotte

Light Brahma

Salmon Faverolle

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Dry Farming - Musings

January 2018

I heard on the news today that snowpack isn't a good predictor of our ability to resist drought in the coming year.  That it's not that simple.  That the land is too dry and 'hungover' to be fecund.  

Tell that to the dry farmer.

Tell that to purslane.

Tell that to the morning dewdrops.

We didn't expect to dry farm last year.  The ditch water ran out by late June.  Too early.  Way too early.  We were nervous, but what could we do?  So we watched and waited.  We danced every time a small storm spit on that little plot of land (our secondary plot called the Annex).  

Hundreds of pounds of sweet cantaloupe, watermelon and a bumper crop of cannelini beans later, we had unwittingly become dry farmers of the land.  The melons weren't huge, but they were firm and sweet and EDIBLE.  It was FOOD.  And it was GOOD.