Choctaw Tribal Members

Choctaw Fresh

Tomika Bell (Choctaw Fresh Produce distribution manager): As Native Americans, we live in rural areas, which means we don’t have the ability to be near any kind of grocery stores or farm stands. But Choctaw Fresh gives people the ability to utilize our mobile market, and put farms in certain areas, which means we’re able to reach those people that live in scarce areas that aren’t able to have access to eating healthy. 

Nigel Gibson (Tribal Council member): Food is an essential need to life. Within our community, we have a high rate of diabetes with all ages within our tribe. What Choctaw Fresh is trying to provide is a healthier way of eating, and also educate tribe members on how they need to eat regardless if they’re diabetic or not. 

Bell: We consider the land our motherland and Choctaw Fresh takes care of it by growing organic. We’re not actually disturbing our soil, which is our way of taking care of our land. I feel like the Farm Bill could help us a lot by getting a lot of our land back. We don’t have much access to a lot of good farmland. 

Gibson: To be able to expand like that would not only give us opportunities food wise within the community, but it also could give us economical help within the community because when you expand, you’re able to provide more job opportunities.

We’re always looking for economical opportunities, whether it’s federal funding or revenue from your own tribal casino. Having that kind of funding for Choctaw Fresh would be tremendous. 

Bell: Access to broadband is also an issue for us because without it we’re not able to reach out and do what we need to do out there. But, personally, I don’t believe that the Farm Bill will make a big impact on us other than the ability to get a better rate of payment for our workers. We hire harvesters, harvest techs, high tunnel maintenance workers, farmers, and anyone who’s operating from the distribution side. We started out paying them $8 an hour and have been able to find the funding to increase that to $12. If Farm Bill funding goes through, we will be able to increase that to $15 an hour. Good paying wages are really important for us to be able to retain labor workers and avoid high turnover. Being able to pay them more would help with food insecurity and food access because if we don’t have workers then we don’t have food.

The post Faces of the Farm Bill: Choctaw Tribal Members appeared first on Modern Farmer.

They represent some of the oldest wines in North America, as the vines arrived in Italian immigrant Joe Busnardo’s suitcase in the late 1960s. Busnardo planted those Pinot Blanc and Trebbiano vines at Hester Creek Winery, and those vines are still producing fruit today. 

According to Kimberley Pylatuk, public relations coordinator at Hester Creek Estate Winery, Busnardo went through official channels. He grew up on a farm in Italy’s Veneto region; when he came to the Okanagan Valley in 1967, he saw a landscape that looked like home. He wanted to bring 10,000 vines, but the federal and provincial governments said no. They allowed him to import two cuttings of 26 separate varietals in 1968. Adding to the red tape, the government quarantined the vines before they released them. Luckily for Busnardo (and his cuttings), he was patient. 

By 1972, he had more than 120 different varietals planted on the property, all Vitis Vinifera, and long before the BC government offered grape growers $8,100 an acre to pull out the Labrusca grapes and plant vinifera—a move credited with changing the tide of the wine industry in the region.

“We consider British Columbia a new wine region. But when you look at the people that live here, there are French winemakers, Australians. People bring their knowledge, their legacies and their traditions growing grapes and making wine,” says Pylatuk. “People like Joe back in the 1960s started that. He knew how to make good wine, how to grow grapes and how to pick the right vineyard property. We look at the ancient Romans who knew to plant their vines on a hillside because of cooler drainage, and look at the spot Joe chose—it speaks to ancient traditional knowledge.” 

Busnardo sold the property in 1996 and winemakers have puzzled over where some of his vine originated since then. “We call block 13 Joe’s block. We know they came from Northern Italy, but we don’t know exactly what they are. We sent them to UC Davis and McGill University on more than one occasion and they’ve come back inconclusive,” says Pylatuk.

A few months ago, Hester Creek’s winemaker made the trek over to Vancouver Island to ask 90-year-old Busnardo directly. His response? “I’m taking that to my grave.” 

“Forty years ago, the original owners of Road 13 [Golden Mile Cellars then] identified their site as akin to what they had at home in Europe and probably thought, who’s going to check my suitcase for a couple of plants? Let’s take it back to the Okanagan Valley and see if it grows,” says Jennifer Busmann, executive director of Oliver Osoyoos Wine Country.

Lest you think Busnardo was the only vine smuggler to arrive on BC’s shores, rest assured other folks have gotten around customs laws as well. According to Alfredo Jop, assistant guest experiences manager at Road 13 Vineyards, the Serwo family brought German vines carefully wrapped in a damp towel in their luggage when they moved from Germany (where they grew grapes) to Canada in the late 1960s. There are also Chenin Blanc vines around the region that can be traced to other suitcases and intrepid travellers. 

The variability in growing seasons and diverse micro-climates of the Okanagan Valley allow many varietals from around the globe to flourish. As a result, many of the 200-plus wineries in the region have similar luggage lore. Okanagan winemaking is not just a story of pioneering farming practices but of immigrants journeying to new homes with a piece of their heritage tucked into their luggage. 

Visionary immigrants like Busnardo and the Serwo family may not have understood what they were starting at the time, but they planted the seed that grew into a wine region that produces half of British Columbia’s award-winning wines across almost 50 wineries. Busmann adds, “I believe that vision from those growers and winery owners set us on our path.” 

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Dzap’l Gye’a̱win Skiik translates to busy eagle or an eagle who gets things done. A perfect name for Jacob Beaton. As an Indigenous businessman from the Tsimshian First Nation, he never imagined himself farming or teaching others. He lived a quintessentially suburban life with his wife and two sons before devastating wildfires and floods in B.C. inspired him to start thinking about climate change and food security for his family. 

In 2018, they bought Tea Creek, a 140-acre farm outside the village of Kitwanga in northern B.C. With the intent of keeping most of the property forested and only farming a few acres, they settled into farm life. But Beaton had to learn from scratch. He turned to YouTube videos and started visiting other small organic farms throughout the Pacific Northwest and as far away as Europe. 

“Farming, ranching, field base food production were a big part of Indigenous culture in this region that got wiped out by the Indian Act,” says Beaton. When the act was enacted in 1876, it took control over land rights and access away from Indigenous populations, which blocked most agricultural opportunities. “Immediately, from day one, our First Nations friends local to the area started dropping by, really excited that we were farming,” he says. Some remembered stories their grandparents and great-grandparents had told about farming in the area and asked Beaton to come to their communities and teach them.

But he was busy learning himself and, as he put it, there’s only one of me to go around. In 2020, the pandemic struck, and with food sovereignty top of mind for Indigenous communities in the region, it quickly became clear to the Beatons that they could do more to help their community and it was time to expand. Developing the Food Sovereignty Training Program, they invited Indigenous people interested in learning how to grow their own food to Tea Creek. 

Providing skills training in a culturally appropriate and empowering way is not an easy thing to do, but Beaton is “the eagle who gets things done.” 

Realizing that whatever was taught at Tea Creek had to translate into marketable skills and employment opportunities, Beaton enlisted support from SkilledTrade BC. Working with  employers, industry and government, Skills Trade BC approves non-public training providers, such as Tea Creek, to train and certify individuals who meet industry and government accreditation standards in their trade of choice. Tea Creek is able to offer apprenticeship programs and train an individual all the way to Red Seal certification. Recognized as the interprovincial standard of excellence in the skilled trades, it is the highest level of training in the country. 

Programs run from January to November, and they are open to Indigenous peoples 16 and up at no cost. Meals are provided and bunkhouse accommodation is available. All programs have Indigenous instructors and include carpentry, safety training, first aid, drone mapping, heavy equipment operation, cooking, horticultural training and administration. 

Tea Creek is not a school with desks and classrooms. The land is the classroom. All courses are held outside as much as possible. Instructional cohorts are small, ranging from three to six people. This creates better opportunities for instructors and mentors to connect with trainees who in turn receive more hands-on learning experiences. 

Arriving at Tea Creek in 2020, Sheldon Good was 23 years old when he learned to repair and operate tractors. He says the experience at Tea Creek motivated him to get up during the day and do things. “The environment is really welcoming and there are really nice people taking care of everything,” he says. Acquiring skills he otherwise wouldn’t have learned, he now works at a sawmill.

Tea Creek though is more than learning to operate a backhoe or tractor. The farming methods taught here include best practices from regenerative and conventional farming. This includes learning how to make fertilizer from compost and using a tractor to till the soil. Beaton’s business savvy has him insisting that trainees leave Tea Creek with a range of economically viable farming skills. With food sovereignty top of mind, traditional Indigenous crops such as corn are grown alongside kale, broccoli and lettuce. In 2022, the first crop of Ozette potatoes was harvested. These fingerling potatoes, renowned for their nutty flavor, were brought to the Pacific Northwest from South America by Spanish settlers 200 years ago. Grown primarily by First Nations peoples, they were rarely known outside of Indigenous communities until the late 20th century.

In 2023, Tea Creek hosted Farmstand Fridays where 20,000 pounds of fresh mixed vegetables were distributed to Indigenous families and communities. Tea Creek also prepares and serves 100 hot meals per day to trainees and staff using vegetables from the farm. 

In 2021, Tea Creek’s first year of accredited training, 33 people graduated from Food Sovereignty Training programs. Last year, 292 Indigenous people enrolled in training programs and more than 140 graduated from at least one course. 

“Tea Creek, can solve Canada’s farmer shortage. If funded and supported in a real way, Tea Creek could be scaled with multiple training centers across the country.” Jacob Beaton

It’s estimated that, by 2033, 40 percent of all farm operators in Canada will retire. Two-thirds don’t have succession plans in place. 

“Tea Creek, I’ve been told,” says Beaton, “in the area of agriculture, outputs more people in a year than any other agricultural training program in the province.” With a waiting list of 75 First Nations from the east to west coasts eager to learn, there is no shortage of enthusiasm. 

The legacies of Canada’s Indian Act, though, are far reaching. Canada’s residential school system stripped Indigenous children of their cultural identity and language. This has caused intergenerational harm that continues to be experienced through ongoing marginalization and systemic racism.

In 2023, 93 percent of Indigenous youth attending programs at Tea Creek identified this historical trauma as a factor in their mental health challenges. Through the peer-to-peer counseling Tea Creek offers, the sense of belonging and the purpose it provides through its training, 100 percent of trainees 30 and under, in 2023, reported improvements in their mental well-being. This is Tea Creek’s real success. 

“Before I got here, I was really in a dark place,” says Justice Moore, who is featured in the film Tea Creek, part of CBC’s Absolutely Canadian documentary series. “I was getting to the point of, just, no return. That’s the only way I can put it. I wouldn’t be here if Tea Creek weren’t here. That’s a fact.”

This story is part of our Future Farmers series, highlighting the joys and hurdles of a career in agriculture today. You can read more of this series here. 

The post Meet the Farmer Training Indigenous Youth and Revitalizing a Culture of Food Sovereignty appeared first on Modern Farmer.

“I started from a young age, when I was about six years old,” says Ayvar de la Cruz, recalling her earliest experiences of harvesting salt from the area known in the vicinity as Las Salinas. “I began with my parents, then continued with my brothers, then with my children from when they were eight.”

The work of harvesting usually begins in February or March and carries on for three or four months, depending on the weather. The members of the Ayvar de la Cruz family are the only remaining residents of the region to continue harvesting salt in the traditional way, which is done completely by hand with the help of tools made only from local, natural materials, rather than relying on modern equipment. It begins by mixing a rustic concrete from sand and clay to form shallow square basins at the edge of the lagoon. Those lagoons are then filled with both freshwater and saltwater, before lime (in its mineral powder form) is added to the small pools to help separate out the salt from the water. A special rake called a tarecua facilitates this process. There, the mixture dries in the sun over the next five or so days and the salt is collected once the water has evaporated. 

“We start at six in the morning,” says Ayvar de la Cruz. “We start early because when it’s cool, you can move forward without getting so tired. At midday, the heat becomes very strong.” A break is taken from around 11:00 AM to 4:00 PM. When the sun is less intense, the work continues until all the light is gone, around eight in the evening. 

The days are long and the work is hard, but Ayvar de la Cruz focuses on the experience of being in this extraordinary environment. “You feel the fresh air and cool water of the mangroves. It is a feeling of freedom and tranquility.” 

At a distance of 90 years or so, she can still describe with impressive clarity the sensations of that first encounter with the salt flats—the feeling of being carried in her father’s arms and on the back of a donkey as they made the journey there and, later, to the closest town, Petatlán, to sell the salt, as well as its dazzling whiteness when arranged into a mound across mats made of palm fronds after harvesting. 

Over the last decade, all other salt producers in the area have modernized the process. One of the most significant changes has been the implementation of plastic sheets as the base for the drying areas, which makes production go more quickly.  

“Salt made using plastic can be sold for much cheaper and it hurts our local market,” says Ayvar de la Cruz’s son, Don Alejandro. “We don’t market our salt as artisanal, but everyone knows around here that we’re the only ones doing it the natural way.” 

Ayvar de la Cruz laments that the salt flats are now permeated with a “plastic smell” and her son notes that workers often leave their equipment in the lagoon out of season and, when hurricanes hit the coast, plastic pieces can end up elsewhere, endangering local wildlife. The surrounding mangroves are a key habitat for a diverse array of plants and animals, including shrimp, fish, crabs, pink herons, deer and coati (a kind of badger), as well as a type of tree known colloquially as salado (“salty”) because it survives in saltwater. 

In 2006, the Ayvar de la Cruz family was contacted by a new hospitality business called Playa Viva. Its owner, David Leventhal, was planning to construct a resort nearby founded on the principles of regenerative tourism, and he was interested in learning about the local ecosystems and community. Playa Viva hoped that collaborating with residents such as Ayvar de la Cruz could help create a space that would allow visitors to experience the beauty of this stretch of the Mexican coast, while also having a positive social and environmental impact that would linger longer than they would. 

In 2013, Playa Viva instituted the Regenerative Trust, with environmental and social goals that range from restoring ecosystems to raising endangered species for release and donating school supplies to children. Two percent of all earnings from guest reservations are channeled into these local programs.

One of the primary programs funded by the Regenerative Trust is as ReSiMar—short for “Regenerating from Sierra to Mar”—which refers to its area of focus, between the Sierra Madre Mountain Range and the Pacific Ocean. Through ReSiMar, Playa Viva aims to regenerate the entire ecosystem of this watershed. Sourcing ingredients from sustainable fisheries and other small businesses that depend on the watershed, like that of the Ayvar de la Cruz family, is part of this effort. 

Playa Viva committed to buying the salt for its restaurant exclusively from the Ayvar de la Cruz family and, when it started welcoming guests to Juluchuca a few years later, it also offered tours of Las Salinas together during the salt harvest season. This relationship with Playa Viva has been a vital source of support in the family’s efforts to carry on harvesting salt as their ancestors did and it has given them a chance to share their work with foreigners for the first time. 

ReSiMar also records vital information about the watershed to understand the scope of their impact and determine which aspects need the most attention. In 2023, the ReSiMar team tracked water quality, focusing on pollution in the form of plastic packaging and glass bottles. From there, they identified a need for improved ecological education and recycling programs, so they focused on bringing students to the watershed and establishing a town community center. “Water studies provide essential baseline data on the quality and quantity of water during both the rainy and dry seasons,” says Levanthal. “We then compare this data year after year to observe changes.”

With nearly a century of memories to draw on from living in this part of the Guerrero region along the Pacific coast, Ayvar de la Cruz also holds within her the history of this place. She knows the plants and animals that are at home in this unique tropical ecosystem, the natural rhythms of the seasons and how to work with them to harvest salt in a way that the local community has practiced for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. For this reason, it is all the more striking that, in 2024, for the first time in Ayvar de la Cruz’s long life, unusual weather patterns caused a rupture in the timeline of this historic tradition. 

“Every year, there is a rainy season and the lagoon fills. Then it empties and the salt flats are left dry, ready to be worked. It’s a natural cycle that always happens,” says Alejandro Ayvar, the youngest of Ayvar de la Cruz’s six sons. He and his brothers, along with their three sisters, have assisted their mother with the salt harvest on and off since their childhood. “This season, the lagoon did not empty adequately and the areas where salt is produced did not get dry enough.” 

The unseasonably late rains that caused the local estuary system to overflow and Las Salinas to flood during the normal harvest time is just one example of the consequences of the climate crisis as they are being experienced in this part of the world. 

“It’s not the same anymore,” Ayvar de la Cruz says of the local climate in recent years and how this affects the salt flats. “The temperature of the water has changed a lot and it takes more time to harvest the salt.”

As the climate changes and the younger generations of the Ayvar de la Cruz family find more financially stable prospects in other fields of work, the future of this tradition remains uncertain, but Ayvar de la Cruz’s legacy will not soon be forgotten. Her singular connection with this local environment and her commitment to this historic way of harvesting salt is commemorated in a mural on a building near Las Salinas, painted by a visiting artist about six years ago. 

There is value, too, in simply having a conversation about salt, considering its place of origin and the people who harvested it. For as challenging as it can be to create systems that preserve our ancient food practices, it is easy to at least preserve the memory of them. 

“Thank you for coming to make me happy,” Ayvar de la Cruz says at the end of the interview. “To remember is to live again.” 

All interviews have been translated from Spanish into English with the assistance of Ximena Rodriguez, Juan Carlos “Johnny” Solis and David Leventhal.

The post Meet the 97-Year-Old Salt-Harvesting Matriarch appeared first on Modern Farmer.

In 1992, Jeff Ditzenberger walked into an abandoned building near his farm in Monroe, Wisconsin and lit it on fire. His intent was that he wanted to die in there, but as the building continued to go up in flames, he changed his mind and escaped the blaze. 

Later charged with arson, he was able to get help in a psychiatric ward, where he was able to talk without judgment. However, with those he knew, Ditzenberger found it less embarrassing to have a felony on his record than to admit that he was attempting suicide, and he kept it a secret for years. 

In 2014, Ditzenberger, wrote a blog post about those moments for the Wisconsin Farm Bureau to bring awareness to his and others’ struggles. It went viral. A year later, he started an informal support group called TUG.S, which stands for Talking, Understanding, Growing, Supporting. The name was inspired by his time in the Navy on a large displacement ship, where, when things went awry, they would call in a small tugboat for help. He thought: “Why can’t life be like that?”

Now a community nonprofit with a bricks-and-mortar location in Monroe, TUGS works directly with individuals and community groups that emphasize peer connection and support, letting them know that “it’s OK not to be OK.” Due to media attention over the years, the nonprofit receives calls for peer support not just from Wisconsin but from all over the world. 

“Farmers have always been stoic, prideful people that don’t want to talk about stuff,” says Ditzenberger. “The stigma around mental health is what is causing us to not have the conversation. We all need that tugboat that we can call, that can throw a life preserver and pull us to shore safely.”

Part of the work of TUGS is also mental health training to better understand how to handle situations where someone might be struggling. “You don’t have to have a BS behind your name to help people in need; you just need to be able to ask questions.”

At risk

According to the National Rural Health Association, farmers are 3.5 times more likely to die by suicide than the general population. A recent CDC study of occupational suicide risk also found that male farmers, ranchers and other agricultural managers had a suicide rate more than 50 percent higher than the overall suicide rate of men in all surveyed occupations.

Farming and ranching are physically and emotionally demanding jobs with high risks of chronic stress, anxiety and depression due to a number of challenging factors—many out of their control—including extreme weather, outbreaks of pests and diseases and market volatility. Many deal with the stresses of potentially losing farms that have been in their family for generations. 

With all of these pressures, there are also several barriers to getting help, including stigma and many producers feeling like they should be able to handle the situation themselves. Along with a lack of anonymity in small towns, there’s also often a lack of access to proper providers or support in rural areas. According to a survey from the American Farm Bureau Federation, 46 percent of farmers and farmworkers surveyed said it was difficult to access a therapist or counselor in their local communities. The rest of the survey also revealed barriers due to cost prohibitiveness of treatment and embarrassment. 

As a response, Ditzenberger’s organization is one of many across the US that has emerged to provide mental health training and peer-to-peer support in person and online.

Prioritizing peer-to-peer

In January, the Farm Family Wellness Alliance, a coalition of organizations including the American Farm Bureau, announced the availability of Togetherall, an anonymous, clinically moderated online peer-to-peer community with a special section for farmers and ranchers. Typically expensive, the alliance came together to make Togetherall free for farm country.

“In a peer-to-peer community, you seek that sense of belonging and that sense of being able to express yourself without judgment,” says Jessica Cabrera, staff lead for the American Farm Bureau’s Farm State of Mind campaign. 

Clinicians monitor posts 24-7 and are available to talk privately if necessary. If support needs to be escalated, they will be referred to someone who specializes in agricultural support. 

There are also courses for self-assessment, as well as access to services outside the platform, including consultants that handle legal, financial, childcare and many other concerns. “It’s important to keep working to break the stigma around mental health challenges and just encourage people to reach out for help,” says Cabrera, who adds that the American Farm Bureau has already seen a 22-percent shift in farmers being more comfortable talking about mental health. 

Learning to speak the language

Learning to take on the mental health challenges of farmers is a specialized and intricate process. In 2003, a group of rural nurses formed AgriSafe to offer that training to health-care providers. 

“People in ag tell us that they don’t want to have to explain their work,” says Tara Haskins, who oversees Agrisafe’s Total Farm Health initiative and mental health programming. “They don’t need to get advice to take a couple [of] weeks off, which is self-defeating.” The organization created training that gives health-care professionals a peek into the agriculture field and the challenges that come with it. They can then better understand what drives the mental health crisis.

The nonprofit has since partnered with the University of Kentucky to develop agriculture-centric training in QPR (Question, Persuade, Refer), a suicide prevention training program. AgriSafe has done the training on webinars with more than 2,000 people all over the US and Canada. 

Haskins says anyone who is connected with somebody in agriculture could benefit from the program. People are often afraid they might say the wrong thing to someone who is suicidal, but training helps develop those skills. She also says farmers they’ve interviewed who either attempted suicide or thought about it wished for someone to reach out. 

Cultivating community

“Ultimately, it’s about preventing suicide, but we don’t want to wait until that happens. We want to go all the way upstream, and that takes both skill and effort,” says Dr. Thao Le.

Le is the project director for Seeds of Wellbeing (SOW), a farmer wellness initiative through the University of Hawai’i Manoa, which provides peer-to-peer support through a growing Ag Mentor training program. 

The program, which started more than two years ago, began with a survey of more than 400 farmers across the archipelago to study the state of mental health in Hawai’i’s agriculture scene. The results that came back showed that many were under a lot of pressure, with one third suffering from depression. 

Le wanted to start a project that builds relationships and creates safe spaces for that to unfold.

The program has 62 mentors across the Hawaiian Islands. The mentors can be reached individually, but they also hold regular meetings on their respective islands for community workdays and potlucks. There is also an additional Ag Navigators program that requires navigators to visit two farms monthly for six months to build relationships.

Le says the program allows the mentors to become role models with their willingness to be open and vulnerable. “[This] is the crisis of our time,” says Le. “We really do need a solution to help build community and leaders to help us navigate.”

“Everybody struggles with basic needs, the frustration to navigate the bureaucracy, policy and legislation, the crazy financial restraints,” says Le.

Le is waiting to hear about a $2.5-million federal grant from the Department of Health and Human Services to fund the next three years, which involves not just training for farmers but also first responders.

“We need to have more innovative ways to do this, because we will never have enough mental health professionals; there [are] never going to be enough first responders. Each of us needs to cultivate being a place of refuge for other people.”

The post Farmers Face a Mental Health Crisis. Talking to Others in the Industry Can Help appeared first on Modern Farmer.

It was dark, with a sliver of a moon lending a Cheshire Cat, Alice in Wonderland eeriness to the inherent novelty of my planned morning of activities. I pulled past the “No Trespassing” signs and found the trailer, cheerfully lit up against the dark meadow quietly swaying in the breeze behind it. 

I shook hands with the waiting stranger and grabbed one of the headlamps and a set of protective earmuffs (exposure to the sound of gunshots over time can damage your eardrums) on offer, and followed her—yes, her—into the woods, where we’d huddle in a blind for hours, waiting to see if any turkeys would show. 

Cheryl Frank Sullivan, a research assistant professor of entomology at the University of Vermont, grew up around hunting in Upstate New York, but she was never interested in it. “I studied environmental science in college, and I didn’t see until a little later how hunting could fit into that,” says Sullivan. Many folks may change their minds about a stance they took when they were younger. But hunting is a topic that inherently brings up strong emotions. And crucially, it hasn’t always been portrayed as friendly or open to women looking to join up. 

As I found out on that cold spring morning, that’s changing. 

The hunt

Sullivan led me toward the blind she had set up, telling her story. (I don’t have a license to hunt, so I could only legally observe her hunting.) Like many other female hunters, the route she took to get where she is today was meandering but meaningful. 

“For me, hunting has become a way of living and a way of being in the world and the woods,” said Sullivan as we sat in comfortable camp chairs inside a snug tent with windows we could zip and unzip as needed to see what was going on, disguise ourselves and—if all went well—Sullivan could target and shoot a gobbler.

Sullivan set up realistic (to me) looking hen turkey decoys in a patch of meadow in front of our ground hide. Hunters can also set up blinds in trees, but those are best utilized for deer hunts, or they can just completely camouflage themselves and set up next to a tree on the ground or move quietly from place to place, she says.

“Turkeys have eagle eyes, so wearing camo and staying very still is important, and they have incredible hearing, which is why I’m whispering,” said Sullivan. 

In a bid to draw the birds, Sullivan brought out a slate call, scratching the striker against the slate to imitate a turkey’s distinct vocalizations. Sullivan, who seemed familiar with all of the state’s hunting regulations, was only able to target gobblers or male turkeys.

“May is nesting season, so you can’t hunt hens,” said Sullivan. “We can also hunt from a half an hour before sunrise to noon.”

Following the rules, which vary state to state and are generally handled by a wildlife management agency, is important to Sullivan and all of the hunters she knows.

Women have always hunted 

An army of female hunters may seem modern, but recent studies show it’s anything but. 

For millennia, the notion that men hunted and women gathered dominated the academic study of early human life. The popular imagination followed, and for many years, the idea that society would function better if men and women would do what comes “naturally” to them—in other words, stop trying to wedge your way into boardrooms and onto battlefields, ladies—seemed like common sense in many circles. 

But science and new discoveries have overturned that paradigm. New research out of the University of Washington and Seattle Pacific University shows that, around 200,000 years ago, when Homo sapiens began their slow trudge toward space travel and excessive screen time, women were responsible for hunting, right alongside the men. 

The findings published in PLOS One found that, in 79 percent of societies across the world for which scientists were able to find direct evidence, women were hunting with purpose and their own tools. Girls were actively encouraged to learn how to join the hunt. 

Sullivan’s approach to hunting—as a way to respect and care for the land and the intricate ecosystem and food chain that it supports—reflects a consistent shift in the culture of hunting, says Mandy Harling, director of education and outreach programs at the National Wild Turkey Federation [NWTF], a foundation dedicated to wild turkey conservation throughout North America.

When the organization was founded in 1973, hunting heritage was foundational to NWTF’s mission. Since 2012, when it launched a refreshed preservation push, the NWTF has conserved or enhanced more than four million acres of wild land for turkeys and hunters, and it has opened public access to hunting on 600,000-plus acres of land. 

Conservation and hunting, while at first glance perhaps unlikely bedfellows, share many of the same goals, says Harling. 

“Clean water is essential for all living things on earth, and where there is clean water, there are turkeys,” says Harling. “We work with partners to create healthier forests and watersheds. And when we manage a forest for wild turkey habitat, we also improve the land for all wildlife and the humans who live around it.”

Getting women interested in and invested in hunting is also part of the NWTF’s long-term strategy.

“We formally began organizing women in outdoor programs in 1998,” says Harling. “We have found that the conservation aspect is an important aspect of the culture of hunting that attracts women.”

While only 10 percent to 15 percent of hunters in the US are currently women, that number is on the rise, with the number of women applying for hunting permits almost equaling that of men and more organizations set up to train women hunters. Some states such as Maine have programs specifically for women organized by the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife. There are also nonprofits such as Doe Camp Nation and companies such as Artemis and Wild Sheep which offer retreats and training programs for would-be women hunters. 

Maya Holschuh, a 25-year-old Wilmington, VT resident who started hunting at 21, says the practice has been empowering and transformative. 

“I feel like it’s a much more ethical way to consume meat. I know how the animal died, I know it lived a great life in the wild and I know it wasn’t raised in captivity and pumped full of hormones,” says Holschuh. 

On my first foray into the hunting world, there were no kills. The experience left me with the same feeling I get after the first day of skiing every year: I connected with the natural world on a deep level that I somehow forget I know how to plumb on other nature excursions. I was OK with my performance, but I could do better next time. I know what I’d change. It left me sated but wanting more. 

I love eating meat. But I want to eat less beef because I know that continuing to support cattle farming with my burger habit is more destructive to the ecosystem and surrounding community than, say, shooting one deer or a handful of turkeys and eating their meat for an entire season. I opt for organic, grassfed everythin, and have developed a taste for wild meat thanks to my generous hunting friends who are always willing to share their hauls.

Hunting seems like the next step in my CSA-joining, farmer’s market-shopping food journey. Will I run out and get a hunting license? I haven’t yet. But I’m intrigued by the idea of joining my sisters in arms. 

Sullivan has introduced countless women to hunting and fishing, and she has instructed groups on weekend retreats through associations such as Vermont Outdoors Woman and Vermont Outdoor Guide Association. 

“If you want to learn to hunt, reaching out to an organization that guides women is a great place to start,” says Sullivan. “You’ll get guidance on technique but also learn what kind of licenses and gear you’ll need. Plus, you’ll be creating a network of other female hunters who are eager to learn.”

The post Women Are Reclaiming Their Hunting Heritage appeared first on Modern Farmer.

“My ancestors were doing this before even the [Spanish] Conquistadors arrived in Mexico [in 1519],” says Paiz, while crouching down to pick up a handful of powdery soil from the chinampa, or “floating garden,” on which we are both standing.

These highly productive man-made island-farms, which can be found floating on lakes across the south of Mexico’s capital, date back to the time of the Aztecs or perhaps even earlier — and now proponents say that these ancient engineering wonders could provide an important, sustainable food source as the city faces historic drought.

“My grandparents taught me the methods,” adds Paiz, 32, who is the fifth generation of his family to be a chinampero working in San Gregorio Atlapulco, a traditional working-class neighborhood about 10 miles south of the center of Mexico City.

Experts say that these chinampas, which have been recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage site, are considered one of the most productive agricultural systems in the world. The artificial islands are built by gathering large amounts of soil from the bottom of the lake and placing it on top of reeds, grasses and rushes in a mass that rises above the water. Farmers then plant a fence of ahuejotes, Mexican willow trees, around the plot to naturally protect against erosion. This system means that the chinampa’s soil is constantly enriched by nutrient-filled sediment flowing in from the surrounding ditches and canals, yielding multiple harvests every year.

“In terms of agriculture, they are one of the best examples of how humans can work with nature,” says Lucio Usobiaga, founder of Arca Tierra, an organization providing local farmers in the area with technical and entrepreneurial support.

One of the first traces of the chinampas dates back to the 14th century, when the Aztecs arrived at the region of what is now modern-day Mexico City. There, they founded the settlement of Tenochtitlán — which would become one of the most powerful cities in all Mesoamerica — in the Valley of Mexico.

But as the Aztecs soon discovered, the valley’s boggy, lake-filled landscape was difficult to cultivate or build on. So they devised an ingenious plan to adapt to the surroundings: the chinampas.

A 2013 paper by North Carolina State University professor Matthew Teti found that in the 16th century, chinampa farms could produce 13 times as much crop as dry-land farming in the same area — a system that provided food for hundreds of thousands of people. Chinampas, the study said, are “one of the most intensive and productive agricultural systems ever devised.”

“Aztec planners created these vital waterways as integral to the existence of its cultural, physical, and spiritual, urban identity, rather than draining the water and excluding it from the urban experience,” it continued.

In the case of Jose Paiz, the age-old system is still reaping rewards today. He says that his 7,000 square meters of chinampa, for example, can produce as much as 100 kilograms of broccoli per day — which is sold alongside the yields of fresh herbs, spinach, chard, radishes, corn and kale at local markets in the south of Mexico City.

“I’m proud to be continuing the tradition of my ancestors,” he says.

Meanwhile, according to Arca Tierra, their network of seven producers in the region cultivates over 40,000 square meters of land, employing a total of 27 workers in the field and producing 3,650 kilograms per month. At some farms, as many as 95 varieties of vegetables and herbs are cultivated, underlining the fertility of the method. The production brings in over $4,000 per month in crop sales.

“At the beginning, it was mainly a commercial endeavor to source organic produce close to the city,” says Usobiaga, who supplies restaurants in Mexico City and began working with chinamperos in 2009. “But I learned they are very important in many regards and have historical and cultural importance.”

The design of the chinampas is particularly efficient in its use of water, which it can absorb and retain from the surrounding canals for long periods as well as allowing crops to draw from the groundwater directly, reducing the need for active irrigation.

This could prove hugely valuable for Mexico City and its 22 million residents, since water supplies have fallen to historic lows due to abnormally low rainfall partly attributable to climate change. And lessons learned from the chinampas could potentially help cities around the planet: the UN World Water Development 2024 Report found the number of people lacking access to drinking water in cities will likely reach two billion by 2050.

“The technical aspects of agriculture are innate to every place,” says Usobiaga. “But the way of thinking that created the chinampas, that sensibility, has to be appreciated and valued: To work with the flow of nature, the flow of the seasons. That is what we have to use to get us out of the problem we are in.”

The unique wetlands ecosystem is also home to two percent of the world’s and 11 percent of Mexico’s biodiversity, including the critically endangered axolotl, or Ambystoma mexicanum, an incredible salamander-like amphibian that is able to regenerate every part of its body — even parts of its vital organs such the heart and brain.

Meanwhile, the chinampas also provide a host of other benefits: they filter water, cool the city, sequester carbon, offer green space for locals, and are now a popular destination for tourists who take boats along the picturesque waterways.

The value of the chinampas was underlined during the Covid-19 pandemic, when, as the city’s major markets ground to a halt, the chinampas were able to provide healthy, locally-grown food. In some cases, sales more than doubled.

“People began to search for healthier food,” says David Monachon, a social sciences researcher at the National Autonomous University of Mexico who has researched the chinampas as a sustainable food source. “There was this focus on local economy and community. Many people didn’t make this connection before.”

Yet despite their immense value, the chinampas are under threat: rising urbanization means the chinampa landscape is being built on; pollution is dirtying the waters that feed them; younger generations are losing interest in agriculture; and agro-industry is under-cutting the small-scale producers in a price war.

“There are a lot of challenges and problems,” says Monachon, who is supporting a local cooperative of chinamperos to sell their goods via the Mercado Universitario Alternativo, or Alternative University Market. “But chinampas could feed the city.”

Now, only 20 percent of the 2,200 hectares of chinampas are in use, and only about 2.5 percent are being actively cultivated for farming food — the rest is being used for growing flowers and tourism. But Arca Tierra is helping to restore the chinampas — five hectares to date — and is training 15 young students in the required skills to cultivate them — the second, six-month cohort — while also carrying out research on the most effective techniques and productive crops to use on them.

“We have demonstrated that it can be done on a small scale,” says Usobiaga, who believes chinampas have the potential to produce enough of crops like lettuces, herbs and broccoli for all of Mexico City. “But the chinampas need support and investment from the government to scale up production.”

At Xochimilco market, the largest in the area, there is clear evidence of appetite for a resilient, local food system and signs that this ancient Aztec tradition can still bear fruit. The market bustles with traders and customers, spilling from the covered area out onto the streets.

Rosa Garcia, 47, is rushing around delivering lettuce, spinach, cilantro and broccoli to her 14 clients of the day. The produce, grown at her one-hectare chinampa at San Gregorio Atlapulco, is in high demand. Garcia says that each day her family-run farm can earn as much as 1,000 to 1,500 Mexican pesos ($60 to $90).

“I’ve been doing this since I was a girl,” says Garcia, ticking off the orders as they are dispatched. “It’s a system that works. Why do anything different?”

This article was originally published by Reasons to be Cheerful. Reasons to the Cheerful is a nonprofit online magazine covering stories of hope, rooted in evidence. You can read more from Reasons to be Cheerful here. 

The post Mexico’s Floating Gardens Are an Ancient Wonder of Sustainable Farming appeared first on Modern Farmer.

In tow was the organization’s new “Cultural Harvest Trailer,” a four-wheel vehicle custom-designed to process the sacred bovid in line with Tribal customs—and US Department of Agriculture (USDA) meat-processing standards. Built through a cooperative agreement with the federal agency, the $75,000 prototype is a game-changing innovation, says Troy Heinert, ITBC executive director and a member of the Rosebud Sioux Tribe in South Dakota.

“We can slaughter, skin and quarter an animal in the open, with grass still in his mouth and have him in a cool trailer in 90 minutes,” or half of the processing time allowed by the USDA, says Heinert. The narrow window, which is tailored to the centralized harvesting of cattle and other transport-friendly livestock, can be challenging on Tribal land, he says. Often, “it can take a couple hours just to get to the highway, let alone a processing plant.”

The harvest trailer is one example in a recent set of sweeping USDA initiatives that recognize and promote buffalo—an animal central to the identity of numerous North American peoples—as foundational to Tribal food systems.

Spurred by years of advocacy by the ITBC, the agency’s grant programs and regulatory overhauls reinforce the interwoven nature of bison husbandry, processing and distribution. The shift in perspective helps restore “Tribal buffalo lifeways,” he says, by putting bison back onto local plates and into the local economy.

For Native communities, especially those in rural and economically disadvantaged regions, reclaiming their food source is a major leap towards self-determination, says Heinert. “So, this is just a huge win for Tribal people.”

Prairie roots revival

Approximately 30 million American bison once roamed the country’s vast grasslands. But in the mid-1800s, federal policies tied to westward expansion fueled their systematic slaughter, devastating the livelihood of Native Tribes. By 1884, the buffalo population had plunged to just 325 animals, but subsequent conservation efforts have revived those numbers to about 400,000. Heinert estimates that Tribal herds total nearly 30,000; the remainder reside in state and national parks, including Yellowstone, and on commercial ranches.

As a keystone species, buffalo play a vital role in restoring grasslands by enhancing native grass growth. The fertile and highly threatened ecosystem is essential to biodiversity, water filtration, soil stabilization and carbon storage, and fostering them aligns with federal climate and environmental goals. (A recent study finds that, in the face of greater droughts and wildfires, the deep-rooted system can sequester more carbon than forests.)

The USDA’s Partnerships for Climate-Smart Commodities program includes nearly $92 million in bison-related grants. The ITBC is administering $5 million to assist Tribes in implementing climate-resilient, regenerative ranching practices, mainly through extensive fencing and water infrastructure development.

Like many other native animals and plants that have evolved with the land, bison are hardy and climate-resilient, requiring few interventions or inputs to flourish, says Heather Dawn Thompson, the USDA Office of Tribal Relations director and a member of the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe of South Dakota. As a food source, the bison’s high nutritional content can also help boost health outcomes in communities grappling with diet-related health challenges, making it a key consideration in promoting national food security.

Yet, the USDA’s commodity-centered approach, which favors industrial producers and national distribution models, hasn’t fostered the small-scale production of Indigenous crops and livestock, says Thompson. Bison are a prime example; the undomesticated and free-roaming animals don’t fit the Big Ag paradigm of concentrated feedlots, commodity grain feeding and centralized processing facilities—common livestock practices needed to achieve the scale required to fulfill the 40,000-pound minimums required for USDA meat procurement contracts.

Consequently, “Tribal producers couldn’t even apply to programs that served their own reservations,” says Thompson, such as the Food Distribution Program on Indian Reservations (FDPIR) and other initiatives that comprise the agency’s $3-billion annual spend.

The 2021 American Rescue Plan revamped the rules to accommodate “a more complex and diverse food system,” says Jennifer Lester Moffitt, the USDA’s under secretary of agriculture for marketing and regulatory programs.

In particular, the FDPIR, which includes elder and child nutrition programs, expanded food choices to cover traditional staples such as bison and wild salmon. It also drastically lowered procurement minimums and allowed state meat inspections in place of federal ones. (Bison, being a non-amenable, or wild species, don’t require a USDA seal; however, federal contracts and interstate sales do.)

Last year, the USDA tested these changes through the Bison Purchase Pilot program, awarding half-year FDPIR procurement contracts to four Tribal producers, including $67,000 to the Cheyenne River Buffalo Authority Corporation (CRBAC), a ranching operation owned by the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe.

The solid commitment helps “even the field for Native producers,” says CRBAC manager and Tribal member Jayme Murray, whose corporation has kept nearby reservations supplied with 800 pounds of bison meat every month since last November. While the near-10-percent uptick in sales is a boon for business, the profits go far beyond the bottom line, he adds. “A local food system [allows] us to feed our own Tribal communities and put a culturally significant [food] back into our diet.”

The recognition of state inspections also permits procurement opportunities with other federal agencies, as well as access to a national, online market. These changes “bring much-needed revenue and jobs to the Tribe and community,” says Murray, giving an economic boost to a region officially identified as being in “persistent poverty.”

Shoring up the safety net

Sitkalidak Island faces Old Harbor, a remote village of 235 residents—mostly from the Alutiiq Tribe of Old Harbor, a Native Alaskan people—in Alaska’s Kodiak Archipelago. Rugged and verdant, the uninhabited isle has long been a rich hunting ground for brown bears, Sitka deer and ducks, while the surrounding seas have provided the Alutiiq with abundant salmon, halibut, butter clams and seals. Yet, depleting fish stocks, increasing algal blooms and crashes in the deer population have made those traditional food sources less reliable in recent years, says Jeffrey Peterson, Alutiiq chief and city mayor.

In 2017, the Tribal Council acquired 30 buffalo with support of the ITBC as a means of enriching the local diet. For an isolated community with no grocery store—the closest is a 40-minute flight away in Kodiak City—the herd, which has grown to about 70 heads, has become crucial to Tribal food security. “They can survive the bears and the winters,” says Peterson. “And as Native people, we feel a connection to bison or any indigenous animal that may have roamed our [North America] lands.”

Currently, the Alutiiq harvest about two heads a month for local consumption. But without a processing and refrigeration facility, handling and storing the carcass of the continent’s largest land mammal—a mature bull can stand 6.5 feet tall and weigh upwards of 2,000 pounds—is a challenge, says Peterson.

The long-awaited approval of the Indigenous Animals Harvesting and Meat Processing Grant, a USDA program designed to bolster the processing, storage and distribution infrastructure of culturally relevant meat in Native communities, will be transformative, says Peterson. The $1-million grant secures the purchase and modernization of an existing warehouse—and with electricity costing more than four times the national average, will help keep it running.

The ability to process and stock ample buffalo and other locally sourced meats and fish helps shore up the safety net of the entire Tribe, he says, including expats in Kodiak City, Anchorage and beyond. It also opens up opportunities for new jobs, food exports and increased tourism by catering to more recreational hunters and fishermen. 

“You can’t stop… changes in the climate, the acidification in the ocean,” says Peterson. “Without a backup plan, we’re going to be hurting.”

Together, the comprehensive nature of these initiatives recognizes the centrality of bison in restoring both the land and Native food sovereignty, says ITBC’s Heinert. “The buffalo was nearly decimated in order to control the Native people of this country. Now, [we’re able to] bring this animal back to its rightful place, in its rightful numbers… all the while helping to heal our lands,” he adds. “It’s starting to come full circle.”

***

How to support Tribal buffalo efforts

Although Tribal ranchers and advocates see the economic potential of bison, they’re quick to dismiss the notion of turning it into a cattle-like commodity. Bison ranching runs counter to high-volume, mass production, says Dave Carter, regional director of the Flower Hill Institute (FHI). The Indigenous-led nonprofit partners with the USDA to assist Tribes with grant applications and project implementation, including bison processing, marketing and distribution.

As wild animals, buffalo are raised as nature intended—on vast open land, in natural herds that include bulls. They’re spared standard livestock practices such as castration, artificial insemination and confinement in feedlots, says Carter, who previously headed the National Bison Association, a trade group representing the interests of commercial bison producers and processors.

While these factors can limit the size of operations, “we have a lot of room to grow to herds without [it] becoming a commodity,” he says. Although Americans eat, on average, 59 pounds of beef annually, per-capita buffalo consumption equates to mere nibbles of a single burger.

“The best way to preserve bison,” Carter adds, “is to eat bison.”

For a Tribal source, check out the Cheyenne River Buffalo Company.

The post A Buffalo Renaissance appeared first on Modern Farmer.

The past few decades have brought changes to Gullah-Geechee communities in the Lowcountry, as ancestral land and farms have been turned into private, gated communities with golf courses as a playground for the wealthy, accompanied by higher taxes. But farming is still a big part of St. Helena’s industry, with both large farms and family operations, such as the Marshview Community Organic Farm, still in operation. 

In many cases, land has been passed down between generations, including the acreage of Tony and Belinda Jones, owners of Morning Glory Homestead Farm. It’s one of the handful remaining on an island that was once full of Black-owned farms. 

A shared journey to farming

Both with Gullah ancestry, Tony and Belinda met while attending South Carolina State University. They reunited at a friend’s wedding after Tony joined the military. 

“We were engaged in 1985. In April, we were married. It was the Anthony and Belinda Show,” she says. “From that point on, I was on the road. We were from one duty station to the next, and we have five children.” 

Tony’s job brought them to bases all over the world, including stints in Germany and Belgium. Belinda noticed that, at each place they were stationed, there was some sort of farming operation, whether a small herb garden or raised beds. She set up her own gardens to teach their kids about farming. 

“We found it very interesting that both [Tony and I] grew up with similar experiences in that our families had gardens and his grandparents had chickens and occasionally had hogs and so did mine,” she says. “I grew up helping my grandparents after school, when I was in first through eighth grade, feeding their chickens, helping with planting in their gardens, harvesting and collecting fruits from their fruit nut trees. They had pecans, black walnut trees, pomegranates, big trees, hard pears.”

The family moved back to the United States when Tony’s father’s health was failing. The Joneses started looking for land after his retirement, but one plot kept coming up on St. Helena Island. 

The 12-acre parcel was originally purchased by a formerly enslaved man in 1868 and passed down through the members of Tony’s family for generations. “His father bought it from another family member in 1968 when that person no longer wanted to be responsible for the upkeep of the property and paying the taxes and everything,” says Belinda. “But they wanted to make sure it stayed in the family.” It had been rented out to other farmers over the years but hadn’t been actively used for some time, instead doubling as a community softball field for the Seaside Sliders.

“We’ve known it’s been in his family for a long time,” says Belinda. “I guess it was more like a family investment, like, ‘Here’s something for you to consider and for your future,’ which was a wonderful thought.”

A family affair

Tony planned his retirement from the military in 2002 and his parents gifted him the family land. Unlike many of the farms on the island, Morning Glory is individually owned by the Joneses, not an “heirs’ property,” a term applied to land shared by heirs of the original owner, usually within the Gullah community and who often don’t have documents such as wills and titles. 

The Jones family cleared land and built a house, wired by Tony’s uncle. They started a small garden for the kids, who were getting involved with the 4H program, following the precision taught to Belinda by her grandfather, a brick mason.

The farm started out with chickens, selling eggs at the local farmers market. The operation has since expanded to include lettuce, okra and collards, plus pigs, goats, turkeys and ducks. The Jones farm follows traditional Gullah agricultural traditions during the island’s long growing season including permaculture, crop rotation and minimal tilling. (Although the Joneses don’t have cows, the Gullah-Geechee are also considered to be originators of free-range cattle, adapting to the landscape in a way that European methods didn’t.)

“At first, we were just doing this to feed the kids, everybody and teach them some great skills that they can always use if they have the inclination to do it later,” says Belinda. “They’re all grown now, but every now and then, they’ll put a seed or two in the ground or a container or something. And when they come back, well, they’re always interested in what we’re doing.” 

And it’s not just the Jones children that connect with the farm. Morning Glory Homestead also offers tours for school groups that bring students up close to the farm’s plants and animals. Family camp weekends allow visitors to stay on the island and learn about notable Black agriculturalists such as George Washington Carver. 

No gates, no golf

Black land loss is sadly nothing new, especially in the Gullah-Geechee communities. Hilton Head Island serves as a cautionary tale: Previously home to a large Gullah population, it is now a mostly white resort town. Officials in coastal Georgia voted for rezoning to allow an increase in home size on Sapelo Island, which residents of the Hogg Hummock community fear will attract the wealthy and force them out. And on neighboring Bay Point Island, a 2020 plan proposed an eco-resort among the unspoiled acreage, which was recently denied. It would have covered an area called Land’s End, surrounded by small farms, which was the site of a Civil War fortification that’s an important part of local history as it’s where enslaved people were freed, well before the passage of the Thirteenth Amendment. 

“There was a battle there called the Battle of Port Royal, where the Union Navy came up and attacked both of those facing forts and won.The Confederates left, and the Blacks call it the day of the ‘big gun shoot.’ The military term for the newspapers called it the ‘Great Skedaddle.’ So, all of the plantation owners left because now they were under Union occupation,” says Belinda. 

Attention is now turning to St. Helena, where signs around town say “No Gates, No Golf” in response to plans for a 500-acre resort. Farms are being lost to outside developers and economic hardship, especially due to these heirs’ properties. 

“The battle over that is still going on. There are already, within the St. Helena zip code, five golf courses, and two of them are directly on St. Helena; two are on Fripp [Island],” says Belinda. “Then, within Beaufort County, there are over 30 golf courses. So, why do we need one more?”

Family-run farms such as Morning Glory are an important way to protect the Gullah culture of St. Helena Island. Groups such as  the Pan-African Family Empowerment and Land Preservation Network, the Center for Heirs’ Property Preservation and the Penn Center’s Land Use and Environmental Education program are providing residents with much-needed assistance such as business workshops and legal services. 

For Belinda and Tony Jones, it’s not just about land ownership. They consider themselves stewards of this piece of St. Helena and want it to continue for generations as it is. 

“Don’t just kill that land out there just so people can come play on the back nine,” says Belinda. 

The post Meet the South Carolina Farmers Following Gullah Agricultural Traditions appeared first on Modern Farmer.

Like the kūpuna, or ancestors, before her, “I create a product that I just give away,” says Gaisoa, 49. So, “I expect you to stand on the front line when I have to fight for this.”

Gaisoa belongs to one of 22 Kānaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian) ʻohana, or families, tasked with farming salt for centuries. Tradition dictates that their salt can’t be bought or sold—only traded or given. But in the 21st century, the flats grapple with modern problems, such as pollution and erosion. And contrary to Indigenous customs, a Hawaiian salt-farming industry has developed, with businesses marketing the product around the globe. 

However, Gaisoa isn’t threatened by the corporate farms because they’re often motivated by profit, not cultural preservation, she says. “There’s nothing to compare.”

The Hanapēpē salt ponds are a place of legend. According to Gaisoa, they were discovered one day after a local woman went fishing and caught too many. Because Hawaiians hunt and gather in moderation, she walked the coastline, trying to give her extra fish away. When she couldn’t, she started to cry. At the same time, Pele, the Hawaiian goddess of fire and volcanoes, was visiting her brother, Kāmohoaliʻi, the shark god. Appearing from the bushes, Pele led the upset woman to the flats to teach her the art of making salt.

When Gaisoa first visited the salt patch with her father Frank Santos in her youth, she hated the activity. But once her two children, Waileia Tafiti and Piilani Kali, were born, she wouldn’t let them miss a day at the flats.   

There, each ʻohana maintains its own section. Located on the island’s south shore, the area floods during the winter, and only once it dries do the salt makers begin cultivating. Salt season is weather-dependent, but it usually takes place from May to August. 

Salt water travels underground into nearby wells, which can range from 10 to 15 feet deep. Every summer, the practitioners use buckets to remove the water, then scrape the wells’ inside walls to promote water flow.   

“You literally have salt crystals on your skin—that’s how salty the water is,” says Gaisoa. Brine shrimp also help clean the wells and sweeten the salt’s taste.

The kiaʻi, or stewards, dig for black clay, then use rocks to mold it into salt beds, which measure between three and four feet wide and eight and 10 feet long. Afterward, they bake in the sun. The entire process takes between four and six hours. After well water is poured into the bed, it crystallizes, forming layers of salt flakes. 

The fresh white salt sits at the top and is used as seasoning. The pink salt in the middle is given away, and the red salt at the bottom serves religious and medicinal purposes. 

In the days of yesteryear, salt makers would give five-gallon buckets to those who asked, but, today, it’s typically limited to one gallon. They still barter with salt, and they have even auctioned it for noble causes. However, Gaisoa doesn’t judge the few who sell their goods.

“It’s expensive to live in Hawai‘i,” she says. “If someone is selling it on the sidelines, well, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

And 2023 counted as a bad year for salt makers. “I’m not giving out any more because I don’t have any,” says Gaisoa. “There’s only been another time in my lifetime where there was a salt shortage.”

They’ve faced other problems in recent years. During the COVID-19 pandemic, county officials moved a group of unhoused people to the adjacent Salt Pond Beach Park, and their excrement contaminated the salt flats. Today, partiers who gather in their parking lot leave trash behind. Cars driving on the beach contribute to sand erosion. A 1960s-era road built by the government through the patch is now corroding, and the salt makers are working on a plan to address it. 

When the aircraft of a helicopter tour agency, Maverick Helicopters, flies overhead, they blow dust into the salt. Since 2019, Hui Hana Pa‘akai o Hanapēpē—a Kānaka ʻŌiwi nonprofit that represents the salt-farming ʻohana—has fought the company’s expansion efforts because the potential for noise, chemical runoff and pollution threatens the harvest. 

“My goal before I die is to get rid of the helicopter landing pad,” says Gaisoa. “At the end of the day, people just need to be respectful of the area.”

Malia Nobrega-Olivera, 52, also belongs to a salt-making ‘ohana in Hanapēpē. She highlighted several large-scale action points to better support them, including properly citing Indigenous elders and establishing prior and informed community consent.

At Keāhole Point on Hawai‘i, Kona Sea Salt Farm also deals with external challenges, such as strong winds and storms. During the winter, the team struggles to keep up with demand because weather slows its production. 

“Mother Nature always has the last word,” says Melanie Kelekolio, operations general manager and chief salt maker. Although the business sells its salt on the islands, the continental US and Japan, it still uses hands-on methods under Kelekolio’s leadership.

In 1999, she started at the nearby Natural Energy Laboratory, first growing microalgae before exploring salt production as a side project in 2004. Intrigued at the idea of making salt out of deep sea water, Kelekolio and a maintenance worker dug holes by hand to create their first hot house. 

Since then, trial and error has fine-tuned the oceanfront salt farm’s methodology. Now, a 40-foot pipe extending 2,200 feet deep into the ocean sends water into the operation’s solar evaporation beds. Those tunnels are covered, letting moisture evaporate under the sunlight before the salt is harvested.

“We can’t be totally traditional” and make salt in open ponds, says Kelekolio, 56. “It’s not as clean as it would have been 100 years ago.” 

And in order to sell their salt as food, the farm—owned by Sea Salts of Hawai‘i – also has to follow Food and Drug Administration regulations, which wouldn’t allow for the customary process.

The business is trying to move away from using plastic materials, although “the challenge is finding surfaces that can withstand the heat and the scope—the corrosiveness of sea salt,” says Kelekolio.

Her team has expanded to include seven full-time employees, several part-time workers and event staff—mostly kamaʻāina, or born in Hawai‘i. That aspect means “they totally appreciate the fact that we are still continuing something that is still an important part of the Hawaiian culture,” says Kelekolio.

She recognizes that they aren’t following local custom by selling their salt. But Kelekolio sees products mislabeled as Hawaiian salt at grocery stores, and she’s proud that she and others with Kānaka ʻŌiwi lineage are the ones behind their product made in Hawai‘i.

“We are actually located in a place where salt was traditionally harvested 100 years ago,” says Kelekolio said. “It really is helpful that you have Kānaka to carry it on.”

Editor’s note: Megan Ulu-Lani Boyanton identifies as part-Kanaka ʻŌiwi. 

The post Preserving the Salt Ponds of Hanapēpē appeared first on Modern Farmer.