Good Things Come in Threes

The dawn sky at Lucky Peak reservoir was a pale blue, and the softly-rippling water had a pink hue from the rising sun. Everything was serene and beautiful....and terrifying. We three stood, strapped into our wetsuits, with nowhere to hide. We were waist deep in the reservoir, bright blue swim caps sucking on our scalps. We were surrounded in a see of bobbing heads. Trying to look casual, I peed in my suit.

Doing a triathlon was something I always admired, but never thought I'd actually do. That all changed this summer, when Bill, myself, and our brother-in-law, Leighton, threw caution to the wind and signed up for the Les Bois off-road triathlon (sponsored by Xterra) in Boise, ID. Training was hit or miss, so we went at it like the weekend warrior die-hards that we are.

Where waldo 1, 2 and 3?

 So there we were, three amateurs treading water at the end of the dock, some of us peeing ourselves. The whistle blew, and we were off...like molasses, trying to get up momentum from a stand still under water. The bobble-head sea slowly began creeping forward, toward the first bright orange buoy. During that first chaotic heave, as legs were kicking, and goggles were fogging over, I reached a near-panic state when I felt as if I were being choked to death by my wetsuit. I was certain that I was going to drown, and I was 30 seconds into the event. I shook it off, continued gulping for air, and kept zig-zagging my way toward that buoy.

 So this is how the race went: Half a mile in the water. Ten miles on bike along a sometimes technical dirt road/single track. Three miles hoofing it to the base of the damn, up the face of the damn, and back down to the base (the face being affectionately referred to as "The Groin", with a 23% grade that pretty much seemed to never end). Below is Leighton's nicely executed demonstration:

"The Groin". It's actually much steeper than it looks.

Exhausted, but euphoric, we all three crossed the finish line as first-timer champs. It was a pretty good day.

The Poultry Plunge

Chickens have been a great source of both happiness and tragedy in our lives here. Today, we bring you two stories. One tragic. The other almost magical.

The Carnage

It all began innocently enough with an order to McMurray hatchery for 15 Red Rangers. This bird is an impressive, fast-growing specimen that supposedly yields 70% live to dress weight, and takes only about 12 weeks to get there. The chicks were shipped over night, and the day they came, we got a phone call from the post office at 5 AM to come pick up the package....

Just a couple of days old, under the heat lamp. 

Holding with tradition, we started the birds inside the house, in the pack-and-play--the perfect sized contraption to hold small birds. (When a blanket is draped over the top, it's nearly cat-proof.) Once the birds began feathering out, we moved them into the shop, in a boarded up area roughly 15 by 15 feet.

Our neighbor, Cianna, cuddling a chick.

We chose Red Rangers because they are a natural-looking bird that will "forage" and, well, act like chickens. The more traditional meat birds, Cornish Rock crosses, can reach sizes of 3-4 pounds (dressed out) in as little as 6 weeks. However, their lives consist of sitting by the feeder and stuffing their faces around the clock. They look like hybrid monsters. We just couldn't stomach it. The Reds were an easy win.

A few weeks old now...

Once the Reds grew a little, we started opening the shop door and letting them roam outside, under close supervision.  Until one day...when I got called urgently into work and completely spaced that the chickens were out. You know how it goes. When I got home, it hit me what I had done, and I ran to the shop. I was stopped dead in my tracks by the first lifeless, feathered body lying on the pathway to the shop. In total, we found only three bodies. The shop was completely empty. No scattered feathers. Nothing.

The next day while watering the tomato pots, we heard a terrible screeching noise, and found one bird tucked so tightly behind the pots that she couldn't move. We "rescued" the poor thing and set her back in the shop set up. She'll live the rest of her PTSD-ridden life (about 3 more weeks) in lonely solitude, no doubt haunted by the massacre, and will carry the secret gory details with her, to the grave-y and potatoes.

Seriously though, we were heart broken, and still are, each time we check on our lonely bird.

We are slowly building up courage to begin the reordering process and hope to get a second batch of Reds to try and raise this summer.

In other chicken news, we finally had a success! Read on.

Nontraditional Family

The broody hen is the bane of the egg collector. She can peck to draw blood if you disturb her on her nest, and she doesn't lay eggs, as she's putting all that energy into hatching them. About 2 months ago we got a broody. And then a second. Two Black Australorps decided to take up the nests. After the last devastation with a broody bird (see prior post), I was hesitant, but ultimately decided to try out these new potential mothers. The two sat side by side for weeks, with feathers fluffed, and clucking softly.

After roughly 21 days of waiting, Bill and I found two cheeping chicks in the hen house! (Sadly, only one survived.) BUT, the survivor has two very doting hens...both who will peck your eye out if you even think about getting near their baby. This lucky little chicken has two mommies.