Faith in the Land

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That heritage has not been lost completely to modern agriculture. There are farmers, old and new, who believe their work should not be done any other way. Among them is Peter Martinelli. He farms on land that he owns with his family in Bolinas, California, but he was not born into the produce business. If you have been to a farmers' market in recent years you have encountered his likeness: someone who studied English at Berkeley rather than animal science at Cal Poly -- a young farmer who chose the profession out of passion.

When Peter is outside, his eyes never rest. He's constantly looking, thinking, and questioning, then rearranging the pieces of his farm into a whole that makes more sense. It's an ongoing challenge, since this is not the sunny California of travel brochures but the foggy coastal belt, where you might wear a sweater in July. Some years ago, Peter tried growing strawberries. Because the fruit's sweetness is a direct reflection of heat and sun, he planted in his warmest field, in the flat, treeless valley. Total failure. He ended up with tart berries and plants that died over the winter. So he kept looking.

Three years ago he planted strawberries in a clearing on the hill, a 20-minute walk from the other fields. Being so far away, it wasn't an ideal spot for the little fruits, which ripen suddenly and are gladly stolen by critters from the surrounding woods. But he did it anyway. He had a hunch.

The berries were exquisite, delicious in a way that forces you to stop and consider each one deeply. When I asked him why the success, he led me from the field into the forest. There, wild strawberries stretched their tendrils across the litter of leaves. He explained that in the woods along the lower, sunnier field there grew lush nettles and delectable watercress, but no berries. Something about this place on the hill was just right. He needed only to notice it.

While the equation begins with learning from the land, there is a necessary second step: extraction. The word alone makes good land-lovers bristle, but it's unavoidable. Paying attention to nature is essential, but if one doesn't then extract a product, that person is a naturalist, not a farmer.

This is the other half of the problem that began when agriculturalists lost their partnership with their land. As they became purely extractors, they abandoned their role as caretakers. The post was claimed by environmentalists, but in their hands it was redefined: They would appreciate and protect but not work the land. The taking and the giving that were once the single job of the farmer were separated into two distinct, often opposing, pursuits. In the public mind, the land became too fragile to take from.

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