On Strawberry Planting

By Sophia Ludtke

It all started when we had to plant the strawberries. 

The seedlings arrived tightly nestled in a cardboard FedEx box, their dry roots an unrecognizable tangle. None of us had heeled strawberries before, and we faced the bewildering task of getting them in the ground before the end of the day.  

So I decided to approach the task in a way that was familiar to me: I would start to read and think. Equipped with a stack of gardening manuals and my laptop, I spread out on the living room floor determined to understand the detailed structure of a strawberry plant, the ideal temperature and pH conditions the plants need to thrive, and the exact procedure we should follow to get them in the ground.

I found myself growing increasingly confused, when fellow apprentice Jesse walked in. “Why don’t we just go outside and try?” 

In my mind, this interaction epitomizes my time at Zumwalt Acres thus far. 

Giving ourselves permission to act -- to venture outside, face the unforgiving Midwestern winds, and bury our hands in the dirt even if we are not yet entirely sure about how to proceed -- felt like a bit of a revelation.

*

Towards the end of my junior year of high school, I decided I wanted to take a gap year. As much as I was enjoying school, I felt there was a part of myself I was neglecting to explore while immersed in a traditional, academic environment. Specifically, I wanted to spend some time doing physical work outdoors. I wanted to do as opposed to just think.

Fast forward a few months and I’m incredibly fortunate to have wound up here at Zumwalt, joining a community that sees the value in a spirit of doing. 

I’ve discovered how seeding flat after flat of asparagus feels almost meditative, how watching a scorching fire slowly turn wood to biochar really makes you stop and reflect on your smallness, how spending days outside in the unbounded Midwestern landscape, caked in dirt, feels profoundly fulfilling. 

But I’ve also realized this kind of doing, before having read every book or exhausted every resource, scares me a little. 

To me, thinking is safe, it’s comfortable, it’s often solitary. 

Doing, on the other hand, feels a little riskier. It requires courage, it demands that we look to others for help. And, in my mind, this conviction that we can “do” -- that we can make change happen, however small the gains may be -- is what gives Zumwalt Acres its magic. 

After bundling up, Jesse and I ventured out to the testbeds, a 9 by 5 grid of soil plots, each containing a different ratio of biochar and basalt, with the strawberry plants in tow. As the winds began to pick up, we propped up a soon dirt-speckled strawberry plant diagram, dug a trench, and began. Thankfully, JR soon arrived and expertly showed us how to lay the plants on their sides, then gently cover their roots with soil, leaving a bit of green crown peeking over the soil’s surface. Soon we were on a roll and, with help from Shachar and Hannah, got all hundred of the seedlings in the ground just before the sunset. 

As we headed back inside, I was reminded of why I was drawn to farm work in the first place. It can’t just be understood through a book but rather needs to be communally lived and experienced. 

*

I recently listened to a podcast on controversial research about “mycorrhizal networks” unifying trees in a complex web of symbiotic interactions that allows trees to exchange carbon, important nutrients, and signals about potential dangers through underground fungal networks. As far-out as this idea might initially seem, I couldn’t help but wonder if the underlying conviction that interconnectedness and reciprocity unify trees in a forest might mirror the intentional community and regenerative model of agriculture we are trying to create here at Zumwalt Acres. 

The prospect of leaving home for an extended period of time and moving into a house with ten strangers was a bit unsettling for me, to say the least, but from the very first day I arrived, I’ve been struck by the kindness and interconnectedness of all the people in this house. Trusting that a community will be there for you even if you seed the asparagus wrong, quench the biochar fire too soon, or accidentally leave the trowel outside in the rain, has given me the courage to get out of my own head a little bit and just “go outside and try.” 

The more time I’ve spent outside, the more I’ve found myself tuning into my surroundings. Paying attention to the darkening clouds has proven to be a better forecast than any weather app. Studying a red pepper’s fragile little seeds has given me more intuition into the caretaking of seedlings. Even coming to appreciate the forest across the street, where mycorrhizal-bound trees recognized the undeniable necessity of community long before we did, has helped me better appreciate why the future of agroforestry is full of hope. 

I’m starting to notice that this mentality -- leaning into community, tuning into your surroundings, and having the courage to get out and do -- extends beyond farming. While going out for a bike ride the other day, I tried to quiet my mind, noticing how the numbered streets extend endlessly in each direction, splicing through corn and soy fields. As it started to get dark I turned off the side of my brain asking questions about the viability of the wind industry or the structure of a wind turbine, and just marveled at the way the red blinking turbine lights eerily illuminate the Sheldon sky. 

*

Today I went outside to check on our strawberry plants. Sheltered beneath a layer of Agribon, they are holding on strong despite the recent cold snap, their roots deeply entrenched in the soil and a few green leaves sprouting up from the rich, biochar, and basalt-amended soil. Admiring the little plants’ resilience, I felt a deep sense of relief and a newfound conviction that we can make our lofty aspirations for this farm a tangible reality. As we enter our third week at Zumwalt Acres and continue to watch our strawberry plants grow, I cannot wait to see what other magic will come from this incredible community, powered by an unstoppable spirit of doing and the warmth and love to nurture it.