Adventure #17 -- Something Smells Goaty (or, Not all goats are emmisaries of the Devil)

Adventure - Heather

Description: Wherein Heather and Marty take a tour of a small award winning working goat dairy in Pescadero, CA.


(Heather's Report):

I've been to Pescadero before. Well, I didn't remember that's what the "town" if you want to call it that, was but yes, I've been here before. I think Marty was looking for a spot to surf along the coast and was bored with Linda Mar, a small inlet in Pacifica where usually the newbies go. So we had driven down the coast and stopped by this little nowhere bit of a town and apparently, that was Pescadero. Okay.

So, somewhere along the line of trying to think of an adventure, and doing my usual obsessiveness with Facebook, there just happened to be an "ad" on the sidebar. You know the ones I'm talking about. "Obama wants working moms to go back to school!" and "Play this app and be a sorority girl, too!!" kind of stuff. But there happened to be one about Harley Goat Farms, a working goat diary.

It was my turn to set up an adventure so I did so, after checking out the site, Harley Farms Goat Dairy, and finding out they did tours of their small, working and apparently award winning goat farm/diary.

I was thinking a different town, not knowing that I'd been to Pescadero, CA, as previously stated. And I was rather expecting it to be out in a more lush area, mostly "alone", meaning out in the middle of nowhere (which I guess Pescadero is), but I was still thinking large goat farm and lush green fields. Only to find out that it was a rather small farm, at least in looks, they do have acreage but it doesn't look that large to the eye. And there are green fields with a moderate herd in both paddocks (not paddies, Marty, but close enough for farm work, I'm sure). With watch llamas. I almost laughed at that one. I'm used to male neutered goats (a "wether") being out in the pasture with horses but that's to calm down the high-strung equine types. I have never heard of a Watch Llama. But there they were and apparently quite effective.

We met our guide by a small pen with two rambunctious does within, butting heads and playing the dominance game. One was obviously Alpha Goat but wasn't letting up at the obvious submission of the other. But fortunately, goats are pretty resilient and the submissive just gave a puny butt back and got out of the way each time. I remember the kid goats playing at Father's and they were so cute, rearing up and being all playful and suddenly, WHAM!!!, while you were watching, slam headfirst into each other with an audible crack. And then keep playing and then butting again. I tried that ONCE with a kid, sort of by accident and it put me on my ass seeing stars. Very hard heads, those goats. And for all our bone to protect our puny brains, our skulls ain't got nothing on a goat's.

She had a very good hair jewelry thingie (our guide, not the goat), and a drinking bottle in a sling, made of ceramic, which seemed awfully impractical to me but looked very cool. She chatted about the goats, explained the workings of the farm itself, how the goats get to retire and the workings of the milking set up. I gamely step up to milk, and it all sort of comes back to you, like riding a bike or... milking a goat.

Then off to see how the cheese is made in the small but quite functional dairy and then the second best part, the tasting of the cheese! I have to say, of all cheeses, goat cheese, especially the chevre, soft, salty and creamy, is likely my favorite cheese. Yeah, probably even above my other favorite, Frommage D'Affinois.

Oh, and the first best part was seeing the goats themselves. I don't mind, and actually like, that goaty or farm smell. Even the bucks (not castrated male goats!), who can get quite ripe, don't bother me. Never mind the smell or the hard work it would take to keep even a couple of goats... I recall my father, getting up extremely early to milk the two does he had when they had kids.... Oh, was it 4:30am or 5:30am... I can't remember. Hauling the hay around, bringing down water and feed and making sure the fencing was in good repair (they like to rub up against all sorts of things), making sure they are safe from dogs with electric wire, bottle feeding the kids, cleaning the goat house and laying new hay, etc, etc. Yeah, hard work.

But, boy, I sure do love me some goats.

(Marty's Report):

Heather had me block out this Saturday, something we have to do these days. In the dim past, when I was young and callow, I used to work part time in a vaguely socialist used book store, and could schedule outings with about, oh, a couple hours notice. Sigh.

So on said designated Saturday, we headed down to Pescadero, a tiny little burg about a mile or two off the south coast, an hour south of San Francisco. It's known for, well, I'm not sure, maybe the funky little bar-diner place that has too much meat for me to eat, uh, in. And the general store has an odd spacious quality, with a brick oven, and there's a lawn next door with bands. Or at least there was one there when we arrived. Well, a duo with a single family out front. It reminds me of a time when I played naked at a naked pool party. No one really watched us either. Well. I was the drummer, so I was behind the equipment, you know? The guitar player has less of an excuse, seems to me...

But backing up a bit, we drove down the beautiful Hwy 1 route, which is so gorgeous all the way down, but with the scrubby bushes and volcanic rock in that area, it's just an amazing stretch. So we drove around the back way and as we pulled up in front of a little farm area, Heather said, "We're going to tour a prize winning goat cheese farm!" Well, maybe without the exclamation mark.

Now, I had been thinking, halfway in the back of my head, that we were going to ride camels. Which is not to say I don't like goats, because I like goats. Ever since running around with kid goats at a goat milk farm close to my father-in-law's house. But with images of camels in my head (we're going to Egypt next year), I gave the inappropriate husband response: "Oh? Oh... ok." This was not the response Heather wanted to hear, but she gave it a noble effort to not either attack me or cry. Poor girl.

But we went into "town" and wandered around the crystal-and-tile shops till it was Goat Time.

The farm itself is 6 acres, which sounds like more of a back yard than a farm, but whatchagonnado? We got to hang out with the greeter goats, one of which was apparently the alpha over the other, and kept butting its nemesis when we paid it too much attention. I started warming up to the idea of being at a goat farm, but I really appreciated Heather setting up the day.

We got the tour from a squat, sweet woman who apparently worked with the developmentally disabled when not leading city people through the goat paddies. (Is it called a paddy?) Heather noticed her jewelry and I noticed her impractical ceramic Renaissance Faire water pot. Is that a gender thing?

It was a beautiful little farm, very conscious. I particularly liked that once the goats were finished with their milk careers, they were sent across the road to live out the rest of their lives (another 4 years or so, after 12 years of cheese making efforts).

There were about 70 or so goats in two, uh, corrals, with a guard llama in the other pen, and a billy goat in both, uh, paddocks. They are such sweet creatures, friendly and grounded, unlike horses, which are mean and spacey. Stupid horses. But the goats will rub up against you and look at you with those sweet Saturnine eyes--well, they're a little creepy, but in the context of the goat, it somehow works for them.

We got the full run of the place, from goat to milking site (we got to milk a friendly goat, Dana or somesuch name), to milk dripping room, to milk cheesing table with the edible flowers, then upstairs to the beautiful converted loft space where we ate bread and cheese with our co-goaters. A very sweet day.

(And in the evening, we went to dinner with Gieve at Chevy's and then watched the movie Zombieland. Which made it a very full day.)