IT’S HARD TO WORK ON A MOVING TRAIN.

My mentor Eric Smith from Bugtussle Farm used to say often that, “it’s hard to work on a moving train.” It’s a phrase I have always loved and now, as a farm-owner, one I find almost relentlessly illuminating. Especially when you’re in the middle of the season, but even when you’re not, a moving train offers an obnoxiously accurate analogy for a farm business. Farms feel like locomotives: there is a mass of power and work that goes into getting a farm going that, when wanting to change something, makes your options 1) take the train off the tracks, which is financially impossible for us. Or 2) get out there and find some time to do extra work. And we have run into this reality in many areas of our farming but especially of late in our no-till transition. For one, we are attempting to turn a normal, (low) tillage garden into functioning no-till business mid-season which means that we are still having to deal with many of the weed and compaction issues generated by our previous practices... while trying to grow food and make income. That part of the train, in other words, is still in motion—the pistons chugging ahead mercilessly—while Hannah and I are hanging out of the cab windows attempting upgrades. And to be sure, Hannah is very pregnant. Because that’s the reality. As a farm that is increasingly four season (making everything “mid-season”) we can’t just shut the business down for six months to remodel. If we want to do this transition, we have to put in the work while we are already putting in a ton of work. And we do want to, if not need to, transition. Simply, no-till is the only longterm solution that fits our overall farm goals and ideals, making these upgrades a necessity if we want to keep farming for a few more decades. The hard work you do in a year should always (when it can) go towards making next year easier. My back is not getting any younger. The tractor is not improving with age. The weeds aren’t just going to stop enjoying bare soil. We have to think more holistically about what we’re doing—indeed, a royal and first-person plural “we”. Every year we have to ask ourselves, if we’re going to work on this train is it going to make the train more autonomous? Because if not, then why are we risking ourselves to do it? This idea of an autonomous garden isn’t new—indeed, it is just permaculture. It is what Fukuoka saw in the dog on the beach. And honestly, it’s the basis of any successful business—cut down on the work that doesn’t add value. So should it not also, where it can, be the basis of market gardening? There is nothing wrong with planting and harvesting annuals every year—indeed, there is something very delicious about it—but it’s everything else that goes into that work that we want to reduce. The soil disturbance and thus erosion. The time spent cultivating. All of it. All the muda. All the unnecessary work.We could let the train keep running as is, of course, but eventually I’m not going to be able to shovel the coal. I’m not going to be able to do the repairs. I’ve got to start now, getting the train in shape while I’m still in shape to do it. It’s a wild ride, and a bit risky, but we’re already seeing some improvements. The train is already running better. Plus, I’m enjoying watching it go from coal-powered to solar. From machine tillage to biological. I’m enjoying the thought of less weeding, more time spent with my family, and frankly a train that can quietly and regeneratively drive itself. -Jesse