When the winds leveled and the water stopped pouring from the sky, I ventured up the hill to look at our garden. My husband warned me, “Prepare yourself [for what you’re going to see]”.
For the past 7-8 years, my husband and I spent many of our joyful moments sharing in the creation of our garden. My husband's goal is/was(?) to eventually get us to a place where we would be able to rely solely on the garden for fruits and vegetables.
“The Chicknunnery” chicken coop housed 11 hens and a mean rooster. One of the hens, a white Bantam named Bernadette, the oldest of our hens from our original crew (She survived a raccoon attack and a bobcat attack; her former hen sisters did not). A rock wall terrace surrounded the coop covered in bushels of thyme, peach and red ‘Knockout’ rose bushes, day lilies, annual marigold flowers, winding twines of chocolate mint and peppermint, pink cone flowers, bee balm, rosemary, grape vines, annual zinnias, various wild flowers, and so much oregano. A peach tree spread it's branches over the coop, providing shade and each year drawing in at least one wild swarm of bees which my husband then trapped and moved to a bee hive.
Just this year, I felt good about where the flowers and herbs were, knowing all I had to do was tend to them. Layers of heavy black plastic and cardboard covered in mulch marked the pathways, pathways ultimately overtaken by the persistence of NC weeds. A round rock planter marked the entrance of the garden which ultimately found itself having to be repaired multiple times because so many people accidentally clipped it with a wheel of their vehicle. The lovely rows of strawberry plants, the butterfly bushes, the blueberry bushes, the beehives and the apple trees.
Before it was a garden, it was a junkyard where previous residents had used the land to dump various junked materials like car tires, a toilet bowl, and other random items. Each year when I dug a new hole for a plant, it was common for me to find a random piece of twisted metal or a shard of glass. After 7/8 years of tending, we finally reached a place of some sustainability of leafy greens, herbs, berries, a bushel of apples and lots of herbs. A greenhouse allowed for growth all year long. This summer, my husband built 2 large planter boxes and we discussed building more next year as the weeds continued to remind us they would ultimately take over any plant we put in the ground.
As I walked with the dogs to take my first look at the garden, many downed branches and trees in my path, I noticed the emptiness in the distance. Where once was a road was now a pile of mud, hundreds of fallen trees and unearthed rocks. Rocks I would have normally been excited to see and add to a rock terrace now changed into weapons of destruction and brought feelings of nausea and sadness. The sky, typically littered with tall poplar and oak trees, now open, occasionally marred by hanging limbs and split trunks. As I approached, I looked down towards the garden and took in the massive pile of a landslide. A peach tree stood firm and rooted, it’s trunk covered in 2 - 3 feet of mud. Except for the “The Chicknunnery” sign of the coop which was caught up in some metal fencing and boards, the coop itself was nowhere to be seen. And the land on which the coop stood, gone, now replaced by a cliff. It seemed as if a giant had come through and cut the land away with a large knife.
Years ago, while sitting atop The Harding Icefield trail in Seward, Alaska, I desperately tried to take in the view. The vastness of ice traveled miles and miles, appearing only to stop where it met the skyline. My friends and I sat there for an hour, just staring. The only way to fully grasp the scene was to put a backpack in the foreground, to give perspective of the size of the field.
I stared at that landslide like I stared at Harding ice field, trying to get my eyes to communicate to my brain and heart the magnitude of its size. It's so strange to stare at land once covered in beauty, now violently ransacked. Where once was a garden now is a field of muck, mud, dead plants, twisted tree limbs, old culverts, broken planters, and tossed composters. A metal tomato cage stood firm in it's place though, no tomatoes remained.
As I took in the reshaped landscape, I found a path that overlooked where the chicken coop had once stood. Glazed with tears, my eyes followed the path from the peach tree and former placement of the coop down the steep slice of landfall and came across a familiar sight, the chicken coop. My husband had told me the chickens were gone because all he saw was what was no more. But, there, at the base of a 400 (?) foot drop of a landslide laid the chicken's house. Resting on one of it's sides and intact except for the missing roof. And there, wandering around but keeping close to their coop, some chickens. And, the rooster.
As the ledge created by the slide was too steep and too unstable to hike down, I had to start my hike well below the garden, moving parallel along the mountain, often having to go down in order to go up again as the landslides were unstable. Through thick green prickly barbs and chunky grape vines and over downed trees, I hiked, carrying with me a 18 gallon red Sterilite tote, the container in which to place the rescued chickens.
My energy level was elevated, neither depressed nor tired, my body pumping a lot of adrenaline. Just keep going, I said to myself. Keep going and get to the chickens. As I hiked, I thought, "Oh man, I'm going to get so much poison ivy on me", noticing it's meanie vines as I trounced around the woods, some still covered in leaves, others sneakily hiding behind their bare branches. I didn't care if the stuff got all over my body. I had to rescue the chickens.
When I came across a landslide, I made sure to gently test the viscosity of the mud as I had made the mistake earlier of stepping into a deceptive mud pool which sucked in my right leg up to it's knee. As I walked, I surveyed a possible future path downwards, looking for the easiest way to get down to the road. And also, how am I going to get that fucking rooster to get into the tote (he's a bit of a shit, his barb having left a dark blue scar on my right shin).
Finally, I reached them. I counted...7 hens and 1 rooster. No Bernadette. My son loves Bernadette and was worried she hadn't survived. They were all just hanging around the area where the coop had landed, only venturing a few feet away from it. I caught some of the hens and placed them into the tote. The others got a bit spooked when they realized what I was doing, but only ventured a few feet from me, continuing to stay as close to their coop as possible. I stuck my head and torso inside the coop, partially terrified of a landslide resuming while I was inside of it. There on some shelves and in some bedding were eggs, perfectly intact. And, a hen, a white leghorn (couldn't tell she was white at the time because she was covered in mud), who was stuck in mud and uttering a sorrowful cry, unable to free herself. I dug her out quickly and with insistence partially because I wanted to free her and partially because I was terrified of another landslide. The weight of the suffocating mud placed an injury on her and she walked with a bent over posture and a wobble resembling that of a penguin. But, she was freed.
I looked at the rooster and said, "Look, you don't like me and I don't like you, but you don't deserve to die." It was more to psych myself up versus he actually understanding me. I placed a small bucket over him and then reached in with my gloved hand to grab onto his legs and flipped him over (flipping a chicken upside down immediately subdues them). Into the red tote he went.
I went back into the coop and looked for Bernadette, the white bantam, the oldest of our chickens and our son's favorite. And, honestly, all of ours' favorites. There in the back corner of the coop next to where I had just dug out the white Leghorn, was an outstretched wing feather, protruding out of the mud. I knew before I knew. I dug her out and cried for her. I apologized for she having had to die in such a way and thanked her for being a part of our coop. I looked around for a place to bury her and being overwhelmed by the magnitude of everything, buried her in her coop, covered her back up with mud.
In all, 9 of our 12 chickens survived. 2, including Bernadette died as a result of the landslide. 1 died as I dragged the tote down the mountain (not sure how she died; probably suffocation from all of the chickens inside of the tote. I'm so sorry dear chicken). I feel awful for this one's death because she died on transport and I value all of their lives. But, I did my best and 9 remain.
Since rescuing them, the chickens have been living inside of our old tiny house aka 'Cabana' which is now our neighbor's storage shed. The hens started laying eggs again. The rooster, now quite subdued and mellow, a far cry from his previous aggressive nature. And the chicken who I pulled from the mud has started walking upright. Her new name is Gloria Gaynor, after the Gloria Gaynor who sang the song, "I Will Survive". I feel like it's fitting.
We are lucky. Our homes survived. We survived. Others in our neighborhood lost their lives. Many lost their homes, their vehicles, their pets, their everything.
It's difficult to write this and not feel a sense of survivor's guilt. The tremendous back and forth of wanting to keep going for myself and my family and having guilt of this want as others are struggling so severely and more so, others don't have the opportunity to recover.
I've never been super attached to stuff. But, when your stuff, the stuff that makes your home and your garden, the stuff that reflects your identity... when this is ripped away in a massive movement of physical destruction, you feel it. You feel the heavy weight of loss and then you feel the weight of loss for others and the loss all around you. And, you become somewhat immobile, stuck in a metaphorical mud pit. It's tough moving in the mud, but moving is what we have to do, in whichever way we can.
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