Sheep Shearing

Phil and I talked at length this morning about what sawmill to buy. We've been looking at portable sawmills for several years. We figure that since we'll need wood to build a platform and interior construction for our yurt, we can either spend the money on lumber, or on a sawmill and use our own trees. I think it's better in the long run to have an asset, so I'm willing to be patient for the yurt.

We're pretty sure which model we'll get—it won't be fancy (nothing hydraulic, nothing mechanized), but it should get the job done. The salesman said that there are people who use this model as their full-time occupation. Personally, I don't think cutting 125 board feet an hour would be terribly exciting as a whole job, but it is encouraging that the machine can support such an endeavor.

My bees continue acting as if starving. They're on track to have devoured about $75 worth of sugar this week. I never anticipated such an expense when we began. I guess some things you can't budget for. I finally decided I was tired of the constant thrill while adding to their feeders, so I tried just leaving the pot open with some sticks inside, and hoped the bees wouldn't drown. So far so good.

Phil and I decided to try to shear our sheep. We've had a few days without rain, and, with nothing else pressing, it's past time to get that done. Note Ashley's unshorn state, below.

We had watched a helpful DVD with Fiona Nettleton last night, that walked through the positions and the sequence of sheep shearing. As an experienced young lady, she handily demonstrated a full sheep shorn in about a minute. Poetry in motion.

I knew we wouldn't match such a practiced feat, but I hoped to be at least moderately close—maybe within fifteen minutes or something.

Well, Fiona used electric clippers. We had purchased them but returned them when I realized that, after the $400 initial cost, beginning shearers have to send the blades in for sharpening after just about every sheep; they get dull quite quickly. And there's tensioning and combs and all these other details to figure out, as well as how not to nick the sheep.

Oh, and we'd need some kind of barn with electricity in order to run the clippers, and we'd need a barn-like structure to hold the sheep before shearing.

Since we don't even have a real habitation, building a shed with electricity in order to shear sheep was pretty low on my priority list.

I read a book on blade shearing, with, well, giant scissors, basically, and that sounded just fine.

So Phil and I set out.

He caught that rotten Isabella. About a third of her wool was already off, due to her weird late-pregnancy issue. And since she is destined for slaughter, she would be a good practice sheep.

Her belly wool was disgusting. Totally matted, crunchy with things we prefer to ignore. And we both tried and both nicked her. Phil was so upset, he almost threw in the towel right then: just get the clippers!

But he tried again. And again. Gradually, not in the proper sequence, certainly, but gradually a sheep emerged from under the nappy dreadlocks.

The pitiful amount of wool collected made me wonder why I ever expected to make any money from this "cashmere quality" wool. Blech! Little sheep give little wool, and it's all matted and unpleasant.

After two hours, Isabella was done. Two hours.

Next he did Acorn, and she, with her probably five-inch wool, looked truly shorn at the end of the ordeal. And Phil cut his time in half, finishing her in about an hour. (She was not dreadlocked, but rather fluffy and soft. So much nicer!)

Acorn, the white, sheepish sheep, looks shorn. Rotten Isabella looks greyish, in the photo below; it's harder to tell that she's been shorn.

You can see the difference in quantity between Acorn's wool, in the foreground, and Isabella's wool, in the background. Expert shearers would get it all in one piece. Maybe we will, too, someday.

At this point, Phil had been pouring sweat for three hours in the hot sun, amidst the prickly raspberry canes and dung, lifting unwilling sheep, suffering kicks and an already-sore back. Almost fainting, he stumbled off to sit in our water trough tub.

Two down; about eight to go.