Among the pantheon of farm chores, surely haying offers the richest sensory experience – with the possible exception of manure spreading.
These days, one deep breath of fresh air laden with the scent of hay, and I’m transported to the seat of that John Deere 3020 pulling a small square baler.
There came a particularly bountiful year when a quarter-section of lush hay lay ready. Little did I know the job would test all five senses, plus a couple more – the senses of futility and embarrassment.
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The tractor and I arrived in a puff of acrid diesel smoke, this being far from the first task asked of that old tractor.
We paused, with the tractor rumbling at a low, throaty idle, to survey the field. Row upon row of swaths, sun-cured brown with green undersides, stretched to the horizon.
The mountains in the nearby Livingstone Range were about seven shades bluer than the sky, and the thin cirrus clouds offered no risk of rain delay. And so the sensory banquet began.
One day of baling made barely a dent. Two days of baling made the merest dent.
Three days of baling and hay dust stuck to the roof of my mouth, flavouring my peanut butter sandwich with alfalfa and dirt.
Four days of baling and I had named the seagull that had been following me. (Jonathon Livingston, what else?)
Five days of baling and I was getting a bit tired of the way the shredded vinyl on the arms of the tractor seat kept scratching my forearms.
Six days of baling and a too-early start saw the breakage of three shear pins.
Seven days of baling and I began to pray for rain.
Eight days of baling and I counted endless rows of bales in my dreams.
Nine days of baling and the constant chugging and churning of the baler stirred song lyrics in my head: “I beg your pardon (clunk-a-chunk, clunk-a-chunk) I never promised you a rose garden (clunk-a-chunk, clunk-a-chunk) along with the sunshine (clunk-a-chunk, clunk-a-chunk) there’s gotta be a little rain sometime….”
Rain? Hah!
Ten days of baling and a careful strategy of limited fluid intake and planned rest stops failed. Nature called in an area far from available cover. In a thistle patch, no less.
Barely had I assumed the required position when a small plane flew over and playfully waggled its wings. Did I mention the field was adjacent to a municipal airport?
Was that red flush a blush or a sunburn? Only Jonathon and I know for sure.
Haying can indeed be a sensory feast.
