Learning to Farm
Before We Buy the Farm

When we first started talking seriously about finding land, I assumed the next step was pretty obvious: find some land. Our first serious property search taught us how quickly that assumption gets complicated.

Start looking at listings. Figure out what we could afford. Find the right property. Then start building the farm.

The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized there was a pretty important step I was overlooking.

I had never managed a farm before.

In fact, I had never operated a farm before.

So before we went too far down the road of buying land, I figured it might be a good idea to learn something about what we were actually getting ourselves into.

That led me to Oregon State University Extension, where I enrolled in an online course in Total Farm Management — one of the ways we started turning the Collective's larger vision into practical steps.

And wow.

It was informative.

It was also a little terrifying.

The course gave me a much better understanding of just how complicated running a farm can be. There is the obvious part—the actual growing—but then there is labor, equipment, irrigation, buildings, infrastructure, maintenance, insurance, marketing, bookkeeping, regulations, and an entire list of expenses that I had never really considered.

And then there is the biggest question of all:

Can you actually make money doing it?

Because growing a successful crop and running a successful farm are two very different things.

You can grow beautiful vegetables, herbs, or livestock and still lose money.

That realization was probably one of the most valuable things I took away from the course.

One of the things that really struck me was understanding why farming has historically been such a difficult business.

Now I get why farmers are a dying breed.

I also understand why there are state and federal programs specifically designed to encourage new and beginning farmers to get into agriculture. Once you start looking at the financial and practical barriers involved in starting a farm, it becomes pretty clear why those programs are necessary.

Then you start looking at the cost of equipment and infrastructure and things get even more intimidating. Tractors, implements, irrigation systems, greenhouses, fencing, storage, processing areas, vehicles—the list goes on and on.

And even after you've successfully produced something, you're not finished.

You have to sell it.

That sounds obvious, but it changes the entire equation.

It isn't enough to ask, “Can I grow this?”

“Can I grow this at a cost that allows me to sell it for a profit?”

That's a much harder question.

For a small farm, especially one producing specialty crops rather than commodity crops, the answer may depend heavily on how you reach your customers.

Selling through traditional wholesale channels can mean accepting prices largely determined by someone else. Direct-to-consumer sales can potentially provide better margins and a closer relationship with customers, but they come with their own challenges.

That's where models like Community Supported Agriculture, or CSA, programs and farmers markets become interesting.

Instead of simply growing something and hoping someone will buy it, the farm can become part of a relationship with the people who actually eat what it produces.

That idea really appeals to me.

And since our eventual goal is a specialty herb farm rather than a giant commodity operation, I think that relationship is going to be particularly important.

After finishing the course, I decided that my agricultural education probably wasn't finished.

And then, as you do…

I spent days doom-scrolling through videos about gardens, farms, homesteads, soil, composting, food production, and people who apparently decided that having a perfectly productive garden wasn't enough—they also wanted to build a chicken coop, make their own compost, preserve everything they grew, and somehow do it all before lunch.

Somewhere along the way, I started becoming fascinated by the idea of lazy gardening.

Not lazy as in neglecting the garden.

Lazy as in asking a better question:

What if the garden was designed so I didn't have to work so hard?

That idea really clicked with me.

I've become increasingly interested in regenerative agriculture, no-till gardening, permaculture, and other approaches that focus on building healthy soil and working with natural systems rather than constantly fighting against them.

The more I learn, the more I like the idea that a good agricultural system shouldn't necessarily require us to muscle our way through every problem.

Maybe we can design the system intelligently from the beginning.

Maybe healthy soil can do some of the work.

Maybe perennial plants can do some of the work.

Maybe biodiversity can do some of the work.

Maybe thoughtful garden design can make the whole operation more efficient.

I've also become interested in agricultural practices developed by cultures that have been growing food successfully for generations in very different environments.

Some Indigenous North American gardening traditions, African agricultural practices such as keyhole gardens, and concepts like herb spirals have all caught my attention.

What I find particularly interesting is that many of these ideas aren't just about producing food.

They're about making the most of limited resources.

And that's something that makes a lot of sense for the kind of farm we're envisioning.

I also like the idea that a productive garden doesn't have to be ugly.

Something like an herb spiral can be functional and productive while also adding an interesting visual element to the landscape. Why shouldn't the farm be both useful and beautiful?

The one thing I still don't know is exactly how much land we're eventually going to have.

My current plan is to start with approximately half an acre of intensive specialty herb production.

Half an acre may not sound like much when you're thinking about a traditional farm.

But when you start thinking about intensively cultivated specialty crops, efficient garden design, direct marketing, and all the labor involved in actually maintaining that space, half an acre suddenly seems like a pretty substantial experiment.

Especially since, at least the first year, the Collective will be providing the labor.

And that's what I think this whole process is becoming:

We're learning.

We're researching.

We're taking courses.

We're watching far too many homesteading videos.

We're figuring out what ideas make sense for us and which ones don't.

And eventually, we'll put those ideas into the ground and see what grows.