Firsts

Nicky

Our new experience farming was the beginning of a lot of firsts. It was the first rime we ever owned farm animals like pigs and goats. Each of us had preconceived ideas of what these animals were like, usually from little things we had heard or read, and usually wrong. For instance, doesn't everyone know that pigs are, well just that, pigs! They are a mess; everybody knows that. They live in dirty pens, eat rotten food, and wallow in the mud just to be filthy, right? Wrong. Nothing could be further from the truth. Pigs happen to be incredibly clean and smart animals. What I noticed first was their insatiable need to be recognized and given attention. Our first pig was Petunia. We bought her while she was still young and brought her to the farm in the moving truck we borrowed from ... She was young but pretty good size sow already. She would oink and grunt as though you understood every word she was trying to say you. We would scratch her side, and she would roll over on her back so you could scratch her tummy. She was playful and kind, and she kept an immaculate home: orderly, clean, and organized. Goats were new for us, too. We learned how to milk them by following instruction in a book. Nicky, an French Alpine goat and veteran milker, was our first experiment.

Luckily, she already knew the routine and was patient while we learned the process: wash the udder, pinch and squeeze from the top to the bottom until the foamy white milk sprayed into the gleaming steel bucket until eventually no more would come. We milked twice a day, morning and evening, and she produced about 1-2 quarts of creamy white milk each milking.

Marmee

Marmee a Sanaan goat was younger and we purchased her for forthcoming breeding and milking. Both were great goats and beloved. We kept them for years and loved having them around the farm. The milk was good, too, and healthy. We learned that we had to be careful about what the goats ate or various flavors would start appearing in the milk. Starting with goats was perfect, because they were easier to manage and milk. They added a premium dimension to our farm. Kimberly and Robyn were their caretakers early on. But I suppose we all got our chance at milking. It quickly lost it's novelty late at night when you were just getting home and it was dark and the goats still needed to be milked. Later we purchased a Jersey cow. Her name was Janey. Grandpa loved her and milked her on pretty much the same schedule everyday. We made butter, cheese, sour cream, and buttermilk from Janey's creamy jersey milk...it was a staple in our home and a blessing to all of us. Jersey milk is notoriously creamy and rich. Janey's was among the best. We helped out Grandpa occasionally, but he pretty much did all the milking of Janey. I think he loved it. He got a chance to rest and think, and he often talked non-stop to calm and befriend her. She loved Grandpa as much as was a good-natured cow for the most part.

Janey

I could tell many stories about Janey, and I will. But the one typical instance comes to mind. Linda and I had just purchased our first VHS tape recorder. We went down to the farm and began recording history, or so we thought. One particular evening, Grandpa was on his way to milk Janey, and that was the perfect chance to record an epic event repeated daily in the history of the farm. He stopped and filled his box with grain. Then with stainless steel milking buckets under one arm and a bucket with warm water for washing, he somehow balanced it all as he walked across the field to the milking barn. Janey knew the ritual well and came trotting over for the grain. While the recorder captured history, Grandpa spoke gently to Janey while scratching her back and said, "Now you're such a good girl. You have been waiting patiently.  Now we are going to milk you so you can rest." He situated the milking stool and gently washed and damp dried Janey's udder. Then he placed the gleaming silver bucket under her belly to begin the milking. The first two streams of milk were shot into the grass, then he aimed directly in the bucket. As the streams hit the bottom of the bucket, the metal vibrated and the milk splashed to the sides of the bucket. When the bucket began to fill and the foamy warm milk, I prodded Grandpa to tell us a story while he milked that we would capture for posterity. He began telling us missionary stories and spoke softly to Janey all the while, occasionally looking up to the camera to stress a point here and there. It couldn't have been more than thirty minutes, and it was finished almost as quickly as it had begun.

Camilla and Steven were just little children at the time, and this tape became their favorite to watch. They watch it more than any other, and each time was a treasured memory of the farm and Grandpa and Granny. Unfortunately, video tapes were not that resilient back then and before long the sound began fading, until it was completely gone. And later the tape video began to show problems, but the memory of that day capturing a routine activity repeated hundreds of times over the years, will forever linger in our memories...the day we recorded Grandpa with his beloved Janey during milking time.

Heavenly

We moved to Castle Valley in June 1976. Rather than hiring a moving company to pack and transport all the belongings we owned, our move to Castle Valley was accomplished by taking truckloads of our stuff to our new home. Since we didn't have a place built yet to put our things on the farm, we stored the majority of our what we owned in a warehouse down in Moab. One of the most memorable trips was when we loaded our old Chevrolet pickup and a large moving truck loaned to us from the Harmons with our belongings and other preparations for the farm, leaving enough room in the back of the moving truck for a few of us kids and the animals we purchased and planned to pick up on our way down to the valley. Since all the family would not fit in the front of the trucks, the younger children crawled into the back of the moving truck and found places to relax during the trip. We stopped along the way at various farms to get Marmi (a Sanaan goat), Nicky (a French Alpine goat), Petunia our pig, and a crate of chickens. The journey progressed fine until just outside Green River, Utah. The old pickup truck had engine trouble and refused to go any further. Stranded on the side of the road, we arranged to have the truck towed to a garage inside Green River. The mechanic examined the engine and explained that it had "thrown a rod." Like I really knew what that meant at the time. As a result, we needed to stay the night in a motel and pull the pickup behind the moving truck the next day to reach our destination. After arriving late in the day, we parked the truck toward the rear of the property and used it as a shelter initially. We erected tents around a fire pit, and our new home looked vaguely like a pioneer wagon train. We gratefully slept under the stars at night--a literal milky way of galaxies. The starry night sky was remarkable. With no city lights of any consequence, the Milky Way displayed across the entire sky--billions of stars. We spent many nights studying and marveling at the countless stars and awe-inspiring heavenly bodies. That's how it all started for us in the beginning, but the miracles continued throughout the years while we were there.

Slumber party

It's Wednesday night, late. I have been setting up my Sound Blaster sound card on my computer. In fact, at this very moment I'm typing my journal entry while being serenaded by a chorus of classical music played by the computer. Linda has been out doing some shopping. I've been home alone with the children tonight. The kids have been playing downstairs where I am working. They play together very well for the most part--disagreements are resolved quickly--and laughter is plentiful. Alyssa is asleep in one arm, and I am typing with my free hand.

Alyssa Robyn Stucki just had her one-year birthday near the first of this month (May 6). She's growing up so quickly now--crawling and climbing everywhere and walking with just a little support. It seemed only yesterday we were cradling her in our arms to bring her home from the hospital. I wonder how much longer I'll be able to hold her in my arms like this, before she's pulled away from me for good. School, friends, distractions of all kinds, and just growing up--it's already taking her from me. Moments like this--alone one-on-one together--are already few and far between, and they won't be so easy to come by in years to come. They're too infrequent now.

And here it is, time for bed already. I must take her upstairs and tuck her in the crib. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll get a chance to hold her like this again, one-on-one, before she's all grown up. I hope so.

Goodnight Alyssa. How I love you!

Finding Castle Valley (1976)

In our pursuit to "move to the country" Mother searched many advertisements and newspaper articles for land. Most descriptions in the paper portrayed hidden treasures with majestic landscapes, a beautiful country home, and a crystal-clear lake with a stream. Except for a few spots, what Mother usually found when exploring these "treasures" were lifeless hills, junky wooden sheds, with a large mudhole at the end of a ditch. But she didn't give up! As a family, we visited a few of the most promising locations, but none of the parcels we examined ever felt right; short growing seasons or less than desirable circumstances were common. As with some of the other family endeavors, this one seemed doomed to failure. Or was it?

Early in the year 1976, Mother responded to an advertisement for land which she had read about in the newspaper. While the rest of the family went on with their normal lives, Mother and Robyn took a trip to Southeast Utah to get a firsthand look at the offerings. This trip seemed to me pretty much the same as the others, except this one lasted a couple of days. But when Mom returned this time, we knew that something was different.

As Mother told us about what she had seen and heard, we saw in her eyes and heard in her voice the trembling of excitement and glimmer of hope that this was the opportunity for which we had been searching. She described a beautiful valley, large Cottonwood trees, towering red rock cliffs, acres of land, and even nearby ponds and streams. The land was affordable, and nearly the entire valley of parcels was available for the choosing. "This time is different," she promised. Robyn glowed with equal excitement, which soon radiated to all of us in the form of unbearable anticipation. A trip was planned, provisions made, and a chapter in the history of the W. Richard Stucki family began to unfold. Our lives were to be changed forever.

Climbing in the car for our journey to see the valley (called Castle Valley) was like boarding a time capsule to discover our future. Somehow, as our car passed though the streets and by the houses of our neighborhood on our way to explore the 'promised land,' I knew that the neighborhood we left that day—where our family had worked and played and lived for 23 years—would soon no longer be the backdrop to the stage of our lives.

We traveled south past Orem and Provo and into the Spanish Fork Canyon. We continued up and over Soldier's Summit to Price, Green River, and on to Crescent Junction. At the time, the main highway flowed directly through the center of these small communities. I remember thinking how small and remote these little towns seemed. We turned south at Crescent Junction, moving toward Moab (pronounce MO' AB, not MOHB like I first thought) and approached the Arches National Park. Mother explained that we were nearing our destination and our anticipation soared, but the sun quickly plunged toward the skyline. It was early evening when we passed Arches and crossed the Colorado River bridge. "Just 25 miles up this windy road, and we'll be there," Mother encouraged.

Now I'm not too proud to say that although I wanted to

believe in this answer to our dreams that Mom had spoken so highly, I had only seen desert, dirt, and sage brush & cactus for the last 150 miles of our trip. My faith in a beautiful green valley just waiting to be discoved was beginning to wane just a bit. But when we turned onto the Colorado River road on the last leg of our journey, I noticed that the terrain indeed did change—from red sand to red rock! Our doubts soon turned into comments like "Is this it?"; "You brought us all the way down here to see rocks?"; "I thought you said there was green!" but Mother's excitement only increased, "Wait, just wait. You'll see. We're almost there."

The sun had fallen below the horizon of the red rock cliffs and the shadows were tall and long. Interesting shapes filled the contours of the landscape, stretching across the winding road and down to the river below. Often the river crept very close, and at other times fell out of sight far beneath the road. The anticipation grew as the car moved back-and-forth along the river road. At last we rounded a corner and gazed upon the beautiful White's Ranch beside the Colorado river. Our doubts and jests soon turned in to utter disbelief and amazement ."How could this beautiful, lush green ranch lie here in the middle of the desert?" Cattle and horses covered the acres of green alfalfa fields. Large Cottonwood trees surrounded small cabins and a mobile home. And nestled beside corrals, tack sheds, and a tractor was a small, clear-running stream. Mother told us that this was the very same creek that ran through the valley we had come to see.

It was growing darker rapidly now, except for the mammoth, solid rock cliffs directly in front of us. The towering red rock crags glowed fiery red like a burning bush. The sun had dropped far beneath the horizon behind us and now the only formation tall enough to catch the sun's rays was this tremendous ensign before us. This red rock spectacle burned more vividly and brightly that night than any other time since. Mother said then that it was a sign from God welcoming us to our new home. I believe that to be true.

Soon we came to the bridge at White's Ranch which crossed over the small stream. We continued along the river road until we reached the Castle Valley turn off. As we drove along the steep, narrow one-lane road, our anticipation and excitement grew. The winding road traversed back-and-forth until at last, we reached the summit of the hill and slipped down into the valley. The feeling I experienced at that moment, I will never forget. Seemingly from nowhere, a beautiful, green valley stretched before us. Enormous Cottonwood trees, rich green pastures, and rustic cabins and barns appeared below us. Amazement turned into wonder as we viewed thousands of acres of ground surrounded by a red cliff fortress and topped with majestic snow-capped peaks. The rocks cliffs extended up to the LaSal Mountains and were swallowed up in the luscious, green foilage. At the upper end of the valley stood a small mountain with the characteristics of a volcano, called Round Mountain, and a little stream mendered for miles down the length of the valley.

With nightfall fast approaching, we stopped at the sales office and were told we could setup camp near the old homestead at the bottom of the valley. It was dark by now, and we found bats living in the old cabin, so we chose to place our sleeping bags under the canopy of trees. Exhaustion soon overcame anticipation, and we quickly drifted off to sleep.

Morning came quickly and when we awoke, a herd of horses had wandered cautiously into our camp and surrounded us. They sniffed our sleeping bags and snooped around curiously. The horses remained calm until we awoke and started to get up, then they galloped away. The children were elated. And although this encounter with the horses was brief, it was just the beginning of many hours of fun and excitement with them for years to come.