“Wild rice is culturally significant to Aniishinabe people here in Minnesota. It’s our connection to the land, water and our ancestors…I had a friend say that Aniishinabeg people, if we were to lose this plant, we would lose a huge chunk of ourselves,” Goose says.

“My sister and I this past fall were finishing our rice, and I had so much respect for my ancestors and how hard that work is —to dry the rice, parch it, and winnow it—is a whole process from start to finish.”

Goose is also passing the sacred traditions on to future generations – as much as she can. Wild rice is under threat from climate impacts, unchecked pollution and overdevelopment, causing contamination, sea level rise, disruptions of freshwater wetlands and more.

But Native people have been the stewards of the waters in their territories for tens of thousands of years, just as we have been stewards of the land. In this second part of our two-part series, we dive deeper into some challenges of water stewardship and how Indigenous voices in regions across the continental U.S. rise to the call of Mother Àwęˀkęhaˀnęˀ (Water, Skarure) to protect her and all life dependent on water. 

Saying no to pipelines

In the Great Lakes Region and Midwest, Enbridge, a Canadian-based pipeline operator in the Great Lakes, has faced controversy for decades.  

Their 1960s Line 3 pipeline through the Great Lakes region caused one of the biggest inland oil  spills in US history in 1991. Occurring in Grand Rapids, Minnesota, it spilled 1.7 million gallons into Prairie River – a tributary of the Mississippi.

The line weakened over time. The Minnesota Dept of Commerce reports 15 failures since 1990, resulting in more than 50 barrels of oil per incident. Corrosion and cracking prompted over 950 excavations since 2000 alone, and 10 times as many “anomalies” per mile than any other pipeline in the Mainline corridor. All told, Enbridge has since paid more than $11 million to address environmental damage from Line 3. 

In 2010, they had the second largest inland oil spill, estimated at 843,000 gallons at Talmadge Creek and the Kalamazoo River, a tributary to Lake Michigan.

Ogimaa Giniw Ikwe is a citizen of Miskwaagamiiwi-Zaagaiganing (Red Lake Nation),  where she’s been “deeply involved with the work of water protection and conservation and those types of things throughout Minnesota for probably the last dozen years.” 

She’s not convinced that Enbridge is doing all they can to preserve wetlands, like those in Minnesota where their Line 3 pipeline runs. “In places with shifty ground, they took steel panels and drove them in so the pipeline was stabilized, and fractured a number of underground aquifers, including artesian aquifers that are not easily replaceable,” Giniw Ikwe says.

An estimated 280 million gallons of groundwater spilled from the ruptures, largely tracked and reported by environmental and Indigenous groups. Thermal imaging showing 45 spots along the pipeline where warmer groundwater appeared to surface. There were four major sites in or near tribal lands, treaty territories or wild rice lakes, from 2021 to 2023. 

The water losses occurred while climate change is rapidly shifting weather patterns. Minnesota endured multi-year drought, even severe drought conditions, increasing risk of wildfires.

But the officials did not lay blame on these massive industrial leaks. There was controversy raised as officials primarily blamed farmers, claiming over-pumping of aquifer water to crops. Giniw Ikwe disagrees.

“I think that aquifer damage had a much stronger play in what’s happening,” says Giniw Ikwe.

“Then this stuff (contaminants) sinks to the bottom, damaging delicate wetlands areas, which filters out clean water and ensures water in Minnesota can trickle down into aquifer systems, and that’s where they laid this pipeline. So it’s been really contentious.”

She refers to the resulting pooling mix of breached aquifer water, drilling fluid and grout used to patch the breaches as a potential hazard to the wetlands and groundwater, even after so-called repairs.

Looking to the future

Many people across the region were deeply opposed to the installation of a new/reparative pipeline, questioning its need. And states like Michigan are still fighting in court over a cease and desist issued years prior to stop the flow entirely.

But groups are pumping out solutions as well.

Leanna Goose works as a co-facilitator and organizer for Rise and Repair, an alliance of organizations advancing legislative climate justice in Minnesota. She does research in the Protecting Manoomin for the Next Seven Generations project, which studies wildlife and addresses challenges proactively. 

There are more than 17 species of wild rice indigenous to her research area listed as a Species of Greatest Conservation Need by the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. They are essential to biodiversity and support a thriving ecosystem, clean water, and human life. It’s particularly sensitive during the “floating leaf” stage, and water fluctuations can disrupt an entire rice bed. 

“This past ricing season was a tough one for manoomin. A lot of the rice beds were washed out in the spring. There was a lot of precipitation, and then a drought the last part of summer,” Goose says. With Rise and Repair, Goose is advancing legislation to hopefully make future ricing seasons easier.

“We’re trying to recognize the inherent right of wild rice to exist and thrive – that all living beings have a right to be here just like we do. This legislation brings that culture of respect to all of Minnesota and creates systemic change, where we don’t just view the world around us as natural resources, but as living beings we share this earth with – as relatives.”

Beth Roach is a Nottoway tribal leader, seedkeeper, entrepreneur, and Water Protector. She’s also national campaign manager for the Sierra Club, one of the most historic grassroots environmental organizations in the country. 

“For the last two years, I’ve been building a new national water conservation campaign for the Sierra Club that advances water protection under the Clean Water Act,” Roach says.

The work she does is a personal imperative as much as a professional one. She talked about the Dakota Access Oil Pipeline Protest  slogan “Water is Life”, and how that moment of championing clean water rights lifted many tribal voices protecting our waters throughout Turtle Island (The Americas).

“We often see our ancestors, ourselves, and future generations of the earth itself, therefore we are instructed to nurture and steward these gifts as if all life depends on them,” says Roach.

“When I’m cleaning trash off shorelines and pulling tires out of the river, I have an embodied feeling that those items will not be doing harm to my waters anymore. When I’m advocating for stronger policies, I know that I’m demanding a future that we need to see. When I’m planting seeds and tending to the soil, I know that I’m doing my part to pass on this knowledge to the next generation. When I’m learning about climate adaptation strategies, I know that I’m giving the next generation a fighting chance.” 

The post How Native Water Protectors Champion Water Quality appeared first on Modern Farmer.

The pod’s dense and waxy exterior gives way to seeds coated in white pulp – sweet, bitter and nutty to the taste. They are destined for greatness in the form of chocolate bars, dried beans and tea at Lavaloha Chocolate Farm in Hilo.

“Bringing the Hawaiian cacao to light for the rest of the world – I really want to be at the forefront of that,” Lavaloha’s president Bencomo says. 

Although most of the world’s chocolate is grown in West Africa, those sweet treats aren’t guilt-free: Industry problems include slavery, child labor, poverty among farmers and more. But in recent years, small-scale producers have raised the ethical bar, and a nascent sector has formed on Hawaiian soil under American labor standards. Here, growers are making fresh kokoleka, or chocolate in ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian language), through mindful agricultural practices: creating their own soil and compost, contracting with locals, and using organic fertilizer.

“For all of us in Hawai‘i, it’s integrity,” says Puna Chocolate Company owner Adam Potter. “It’s gonna be Hawaiian grown, and it’s gonna be quality beans.”

Also operating on the island, Puna Chocolate Company works with independent farmers to grow cacao, which accounts for 40 percent of its cocoa bean production. One, who is based in Hakalau, identifies as Kanaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian). The other 60 percent is produced across seven farms – four owned and three managed by Puna Chocolate Co.

To Potter, his top-selling caramel macadamia turtles are worlds away from mass-produced chocolate by major global players, such as Hershey. Imported commodities take time to reach American consumers, Potter said, which can mean slightly-rancid cocoa butter and absent flavor profiles.

“Why Hawaiian (chocolate) tastes so different is that you’re in the U.S.,” says Potter. “You’re getting fresh, from-origin chocolate.”

He and his co-owner Benjamin Vanegtern opt against aging their beans, in order to transform them into chocolate more quickly. 

“We’re probably the freshest chocolate bars you can get in the country,” Potter adds.

Still, he wants to keep prices low for the local market. In Kona, where most of the island’s resorts are located, tourists make up 80 percent of Puna Chocolate Co.’s market. But in Hilo, that percentage is flip-flopped, with residents accounting for 80 percent of business.

“We don’t need to charge that much because we do grow our own beans,” Potter says. “And we grow a lot.”

Since joining Lavaloha in 2019, Bencomo has spent most of his days farming on the property made up of almost 1,000 acres – 25 of which are dedicated to cacao. With around 10,000 trees, it’s Lavaloha’s main commodity. 

From seed to orchard, the cacao growing process can take up to two years. Once the pods turn vibrant colors – orange, red, maroon and yellow – they’re ready to be harvested with clippers and sickles. Harvesting is done by hand because appropriate equipment isn’t available on the market. Each bean is hand sorted and graded, with the lowest turned to compost. Bencomo chooses to sort the old-fashioned way because optical sorting machines are expensive and primarily used for coffee beans.

Tourists are the largest market for Lavaloha’s products, but Bencomo would eventually like to serve as a bulk bean seller. He wants to start a collective system where he buys cacao from farmers for a fair price, then resells the beans to chocolate makers and confectioners.

He manages almost a dozen employees – around 25 percent of whom are Kānaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian). The Indigenous people of Hawai‘i are increasingly being priced out of the islands due to the tourism industry, the affordable housing crisis and the skyrocketing cost of living, but a viable job market can help them continue to live in the lands of their ancestors. 

Bencomo took the reins of the business in 2022, and it’s grown steadily since then.

In Hawai‘i, “I definitely think it’s gonna be bigger,” he said. “Look out for Hawaiian cacao in the grocery stores in the next couple years, I hope.”

Across the island chain, on the east side of Kaua‘i, Will Lydgate is determined to elevate Hawai‘i’s reputation as a global leader in the chocolate industry. He estimates the state produces about 1/10,000th of the world’s cocoa supply.

“We’ll never compete on quantity, but we don’t want to,” says Lydgate, owner of Lydgate Farms. “We want to be the place where the best chocolate in the world is.”

And he believes that operating in the U.S. offers advantages beyond its agricultural resources.

Compared to other cacao-growing nations, “we also have better roads. We have FedEx,” says Lydgate. “We have scientists, universities, an electricity grid that doesn’t go on and off, stable currency – things that a lot of other tropical nations don’t have.”

But Hawaiian cacao farms do deal with their own local challenges, like high expenses and a dearth of affordable worker housing.

“In the Hawaiian islands, we’re completely separated from the global commodity cacao,” he says. “We do not touch it. It does not really influence us or change anything, other than the price of cocoa butter.”

Lydgate, his sister and his father started their foray into cacao after planting a small grove in 2002, although the family ties to Hawai‘i extend back to 1865 when Lydate’s great-great grandfather first immigrated to the then-monarchy.

Now, Lydgate Farms is made up of 46 acres, and its team of 30 includes about five people of Kānaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian) ancestry. The land gets between 50 to 70 inches of rain annually, which keeps its 3,200 thirsty cacao trees watered, and organic fertilizer is used to boost soil health. The farm relies on regenerative farming practices.

“If you’re buying from us, we’re the people that grew it,” Lydgate says. “There’s no step in between you and the farm.”

Author Megan Ulu-Lani Boyanton identifies as Kanaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian).

The post In Hawai‘i, American Farmers Believe They Do Cacao Better appeared first on Modern Farmer.

According to the American Immigration Council, women slightly outnumber men at over 23 million female immigrants in the U.S. But while immigrants move by choice, refugees have been forced to flee their homes due to violence, war, hunger and climate change. Some need items as basic as shoes. At MAKE, these women are offered not just support, but a launching pad to their new lives in the US. 

MAKE Projects, which stands for Merging Agriculture Kitchens and Employment, is a spin-off of the International Rescue Committee, a refugee resettlement agency, and provides the women three months of paid worker training through a community garden, kitchen and 16-table café.

“While not all refugee and immigrant women have a strong connection to farm, everyone has a strong connection to foods that evoke memories, nostalgia or just an important sense of cultural identity,” says Anchi Mei, MAKE’s executive director and founder.

Mei launched the nonprofit in 2017 to address the lack of workforce development opportunities for refugee women with English language and cultural barriers, who can find themselves isolated and trapped in poverty. 

“Over time, we have come to understand that access to employment is more than financial. It is personal, emotional, social and benefits not just the immediate family but the whole community.” 

Mei’s program for women and youth, which has built partnerships with local colleges, community organizations, employers and customers, is a necessary bridge.  

Weekly English coaching provided by volunteers helps smooth the path for the newcomers. But it all begins with the universal language of food, in all its worldly flavors. The first two weeks are spent on the farm.

MAKE Farm, a roughly quarter acre plot, uses low-till practices to improve soil health and nutrient density in crops, along with intercropping – growing two or more crops close together – and integrated pest management. Fish and kelp meal are the main fertilizers. Throughout the grounds, pollinator plants and bird habitats promote cross-pollination and a more complex ecosystem.

The resulting bounty travels to the kitchen side, but it loops back to the farm in leftovers to nourish new plantings. “We promote living soils with a robust composting system using our restaurant food waste and regular applications of compost teas,” Mei says.

Farm Program Manager Robbie Wilcox chooses a diverse planting mix. A winter CSA mix contained Taiwanese chrysanthemum greens alongside more familiar customer favorites: spinach, radishes, beets and sweet potato. The produce goes into several dishes at the cafe, like the MAKE Market Salad and Wellness Soup Bowl, tailored by chef Renee Fox around whatever is fresh and abundant that week. 

As the women plant, prune and prep vegetable boxes for subscribers, they ease into the many skills needed to enter the workforce. And when they begin the next phase of the program by working at MAKE’s cafe in North Park, they continue to hone their culinary and hospitality skills serving up such fare as Afghan chicken, cardamom crepes and toasted milk bread; recipe ideas the women share from their own experiences. Several graduates have gone on to work in food service at local hospitals.

“We are a better San Diego with more different voices, flavors and faces at the table.”

Not all choose to work with food, however. Gulnara, who is originally from Kazakhstan, found a job in finance and operations at a local nonprofit. Others work in local hospitals and schools, like Nejat, a recent graduate from Ethiopia.

The farm to table training is a unique way to enter the American workforce, Mei says. Students learn essential job readiness skills and expectations as they transition from the farm to a more intensive work experience in MAKE’s restaurant. And with participants who have hailed from over 30 countries since the program began, it’s a cultural dialogue that enriches the entire San Diego community.

Last year, she says, “was epic.” Thanks to a large workforce development grant, they expanded their facilities and scaled up the adult trainee program, allowing them to work with many more refugee and immigrant women of all different English speaking levels, and educational and professional backgrounds from their home countries.

This year, they are preparing to move to a more permanent address, as they work through the permitting for a new MAKE cafe in San Diego’s Normal Heights neighborhood, not far from their current location. It’s expected to open before the end of the year. In addition to the existing farm in Mission Valley, the new cafe will add its own 2,000 square foot garden on-site. 

Mei says they won’t be deterred by the roiling political climate, as another round of the Trump administration again takes aim at immigrants. After all, they survived the first go-round, and forged their way during COVID, the toughest of times.

“We will continue to be nimble, resourceful and resilient, much like our participants,” she says. Fortunately, MAKE has a strong community of local supporters that believe in their mission. 

“We are a better San Diego with more different voices, flavors and faces at the table.”

The post Spotlight On an Urban Farm Helping Refugees and Immigrants Build Community appeared first on Modern Farmer.

A Black woman and Le Cordon Bleu grad who cooked in prestigious restaurants, Woodward watched as peers in the industry obtained funding because they had a network to tap into. Individual investors dismissed her as not being ambitious or confident enough. She had no recent revenue figures to provide to a bank.

Woodward believes her color was a barrier to procuring capital. “I think we just have a perception of what leadership looks like, or who can lead or build. That’s a trope or image. If you don’t match that image…,” she trails off.

Then she successfully applied for financing from Black Farmer Fund (BFF), a nonprofit community investment fund that supports the Black agricultural community in the Northeast to close the racial wealth gap and build connections. 

Thanks primarily to BFF, “we were able to create a brand and get our infrastructure set up and inventory and everything we needed,” says Woodward.

Filling a void

Since the 1920s, the percentage of Black farmers in the United States has declined precipitously from 14 percent to two percent. The history of racism throughout the agricultural industry is well-documented. Though the ruling of Pigford vs Glickman awarded nearly $2 billion to Black farmers, it’s still difficult for beginning Black farmers to get a foothold in the industry.

BFF is one of a handful of organizations formed since 2020 to support BIPOC farmers and food businesses unable to obtain capital and other critical aid through conventional options, like a farm credit bureau or bank. Another is Potlikker Capital, a social justice charitable fund supporting mainly rural BIPOC farmers across the country.

Both are impact investing funds, which invest capital to generate returns and positive social or environmental impact. Like other investment funds, they raise capital through donations and the sale of notes. 

BFF seeks to deploy $40 million over 75 investments within 10 years. So far it has raised 68 percent towards that and invested in 16 farms and businesses including a distillery, a herbal education and medicine concern, and a brand of a West African sparkling beverage. Some are members of BFF’s $1.1 million pilot fund, which was used to test, build, and inform the organization’s process for centering the needs of farmers and investing in a more reparative structure of capital.

Potlikker aims to work with 300 businesses, including distributors, processors, and producers. lt also partners with farmers who are not of color, but who are in relationship to the community, and underwrites two agriculture entities: Jubilee Justice and Food System 6.

The funds employ a holistic approach using integrated capital, technical assistance, and networking, recognizing that growth support requires more than just money, particularly in BIPOC communities. Technical assistance can range from helping a farmer set up Quick Books to introductions to a soil remediation expert or a State Department of Agriculture contact. Chosen farmers and businesses must follow climate-smart practices and give back to their communities. 

In this non-extractive, restorative model, integrated capital can be zero or low interest loans, grants and recoverable grants, equity, or near equity. Decision making is community-led by BIPOC members of food and agricultural spaces, including farmers or those who work at nonprofits, in food systems, education, and business, including some of whom have received support from the organizations. 

Strands of support

Support takes many forms. For one, BFF and Potlikker establish culturally appropriate relationships and do not charge a fee for their services.

BFF also offers community engagement and networking through community work days and skill shares on topics like how to be loan ready. Funding comes from rapid response or community garden pools or as a portfolio business, a large scale investment. 

Sometimes, when trusted with people’s emotions or mental health challenges, “just being able to be there and help folks navigate through challenging transitions,” is what’s required, says BFF co-founder Olivia Watkins. 

Edenesque became a portfolio business of BFF last year. While most investees receive between a quarter and half a million dollars, the company received $1.25 million in a grant and a loan. With the funding, Edenesque relaunched in October 2024. Its nut and oat milks are sold in over 200 stores in the Northeast, including Whole Foods; that number will double by April. Now that she’s virtually rebuilt her company from scratch, Woodward plans to use BFF’s technical assistance offerings, like learning to use social media for brand promotion. 

Since 2021, Potlikker has provided resources to 57 farmers in 24 states. By May, co-founder Mark Watson expects that number to grow to 65. 

Ozell White, a Mississippi cattle and watermelon farmer, participated in Jubilee Justice’s rice growing project. He served as Chair of Potlikker’s Board and received a $12,000 grant for fencing and a mechanical weeder after meeting Watson on a cross-country RV trip to visit farmers. Better equipped to control weeds and practice sustainable farming, White now doesn’t need pricey chemical inputs. 

With eight other farmers throughout Mississippi, White is also participating in one of Potlikker’s “communities of practice,” groups organized so farmers can share knowledge and trade business opportunities. They’re learning accounting, tax preparation, and business planning from Potlikker staff, its Board and Resource Council members, and experts contracted by Potlikker.

“The beauty of Potlikker,” says White, “is that they can start with the farmer, and walk with that farmer from where they are and stay with them until they get where they need to go.” 

Changing the landscape

These efforts to effect systemic change have gained greater significance with the recent dissolution of many DEI efforts across industries. 

Watson and Watkins believe that fundraising will continue apace because of the substantial interest in having strong local food systems and support from mission-aligned donors. “I think it’s just the context in which we’re all working is going to shift,” Watkins says.  

Organizations like Potlikker and BFF are needed to help the money flow fair, says Watson. “I don’t know how we’re going to handle it, but we’re going to keep doing what we’re doing,” he asserts, “serving communities that we feel like have not ever had real access or might be getting diminished access to resources.”

The post On the Ground with Organizations Uplifting BIPOC Farmers appeared first on Modern Farmer.

Alone, the task would have taken Aiello the better part of a day; together, the group covers the whole field in barely more than two hours. This is the beauty of a farmer support network, like Rooted Northwest. 

Rooted Northwest is a 240-acre piece of land which hosts a growing number of farmers, including Aiello, with collaboration and farmer support at the center of their operation, similar to an agri-hood. 

“Farmers rely on communities, and communities rely on farmers,” says Aiello. “We work closely together, we share infrastructure, we share equipment, we help each other out.” 

As a family farmer running a commercial business, Aiello says going it alone just isn’t a realistic possibility. And soon, he’ll have even more neighbors with whom he can collaborate.

In December, the Rooted Northwest Agrivillage Preliminary Plat was approved by Snohomish County. Thanks to a new ordinance passed in 2023, Rooted Northwest will be able to tightly concentrate new homes on less acreage than is typically allowed by county building code. This will allow the project to preserve at least 200 acres of working farmland. If successful, this experiment could become a replicable model for farmland conservation.

The ordinance

The Rooted Northwest land, ringed by trees, has only a few reminders of the centennial dairy it once was, including a handful of lingering structures and a small manure lagoon. The land sits about an hour north of Seattle in Snohomish County, which struggles from two problems that often feel at odds — the loss of viable farmland to development, and the need for more housing for its residents.

Despite its long tenure as farmland, the former Tillman Dairy was actually zoned residential. This made the land attractive to developers and drove up the price above what most farmers could afford to pay. When the land went up for sale, it was a risk of being converted away from agriculture. 

“It certainly wasn’t going to be something that was affordable to another farmer,” says Dave Boehnlein, one of the founders of Rooted Northwest.

After securing a bank loan and purchasing the land for $3.5 million in 2020, Boehnlein worked with Snohomish County to pass the Rural Village Housing Demonstration Program ordinance in 2023. This will allow them to build 40 homes in one corner of the property, and 30 in another, while conserving at least 85 percent of the land for farming. The ordinance is scheduled to last for a few years, as a way for the county to try it out.

“We are really hoping that this becomes a model, that this can be essentially a case study that other people, other counties, other jurisdictions can look at and say, ‘here is a novel way that we can use development as a tool to preserve land,’” Boehnlein says.

Rooted Northwest hopes to break ground on construction of village one in 2025, with 14 of the 40 available homes already spoken for. Not all residents of the onsite homes will be farmers, says Boehnlein. 

The prices for the homes will not be determined until the project goes out to bid, but the smallest two-bedroom units will likely be around $850,000 and the larger four-bedroom ones are in the ballpark of $1.8 million. These prices account for the cost of the house, but also the acreage preserved for farming.

“Let’s prove that this works.”

Boehnlein hopes that after they have proof of concept in place with the first group of homes, they’ll be able to find programs that will support affordability for more farmers to buy into the second village.

“The whole picture here is, at the end of the day, can we use the development of these neighborhoods to generate the money that pays for this land and puts it into protection in perpetuity, while tightly concentrating those homes in what essentially is a traditional village context,” says Boehnlein.

Cohousing in the US

Rooted Northwest is already a functioning farm, but in its final form, it will also be a cohousing community. It will join the ranks of a larger movement of communal housing in the United States.

Cohousing consists of tightly concentrated homes with shared communal spaces, such as outdoor areas or communal kitchens. They are self-organized and self-governing. There are some 180 cohousing communities in the US, with 140 more at some stage of development, says Trish Becker, executive director of the Cohousing Association of the United States. As with Rooted Northwest, one of the biggest hurdles these communities face is zoning challenges, she says. 

Becker, who helped start the cohousing community she currently lives in in the Denver area, cites many benefits of cohousing, such as knowing after a long day of work that there will be food already made if you ask for it, or knowing who can care for your pets when you leave town. 

“But then beyond all of those day-to-day details, I just think that when we experience a sense of belonging, specifically within communities of proximity, that we are more likely to pursue fulfilling endeavors,” says Becker. “We are better when we feel connected and supported, and especially when our basic needs are met.”

The Cohousing Association of the United States exists to support the cohousing movement by sharing resources and education, and working on some of the things that Becker perceives as other key obstacles in the larger cohousing landscape, such as the lack of racial diversity and the high cost of entry. 

“To build cohousing is no more affordable than to build any type of housing,” says Becker. “Struggles that are faced by housing overall are faced by cohousing, and that’s a challenge.”

Conservation

One thing that sets Rooted Northwest apart from other cohousing communities is its focus on conserving farmland and supporting farmers. As community members worked together to sheet mulch Aiello’s farm, they used shared rakes, shovels, and wheelbarrows. Aiello drives a shared tractor. 

The farming model of Rooted Northwest is an extension of the cohousing sense of community — it’s not just the land that is shared, but resources and infrastructure that are costly to purchase on one’s own. Beyond tools, this also includes critical infrastructure such as onsite cold storage, a refrigerated van, a greenhouse for plant starts, and washing facilities.

Boehnlein says they’ve worked extensively with the Snohomish Conservation District. In one instance, the Snohomish Conservation District received a grant to explore agroforestry as a solution to farming wet ground. Rooted Northwest is home to one of their test sites — about a three-acre chunk of the farm is now an alley cropping system, wherein hay is being grown among lines of aronia berries, hazelnuts, elderberries, pawpaws, and more. Through another grant received by the Snohomish Conservation District, they’re experimenting with agroforestry by planting in the understory of the trees. About a half acre of land on the eastern side of the farm will feature tea plants grown by one of Rooted Northwest’s farmers just beneath some big leaf maples. Boehnlein’s hope is that not only can they conserve farmland, they can share what they learn with others. In the coming years, Rooted Northwest will be the pilot of a housing ordinance that could protect farmland, and experiment with ways of farming effectively. It doesn’t have to be housing versus farmland, Boehnlein says. It can be both.

“Let’s prove that this works.”

The post A Washington Cohousing Project Could Help Preserve Farmland appeared first on Modern Farmer.

But over the past 25 years, peer-reviewed scientific studies show that biodynamic farming enhances soil quality and biodiversity. It also produces more nutritious produce and wine that tastes better. 

With that in mind, the era of downplaying the merits of biodynamic farming is officially over. Today, biodynamic farmers on the cutting edge are taking the philosophy and science that has served them so well on their farms and applying it to their business practices.

Biodynamic farming 101

Still not sure what we mean when we say biodynamic farming? You’re not alone. Biodynamics is based on the work of philosopher and scientist Dr. Rudolf Steiner (1861-1925). It is, at its simplest level, a method of chemical-free organic farming that entails the observation of lunar phases, planetary cycles and requires the use of locally sourced materials for fertilization and soil conditioning.

Practitioners see the farm as a closed, biodiverse ecosystem that requires internal inputs—which can come from the manure of ruminants raised on the farm, or from teas made from plants grown and animal products present on the farm—to nourish and feed itself. 

There are two primary forms of biodynamic certification, through Demeter-USA and Demeter International. It is estimated that there are around 6,000 certified biodynamic farms in operation across the world, and many more who farm biodynamically without certification. (The cost of getting certified varies depending on the farm’s size, but is generally at least a few thousand dollars, and requires adherence to a complex set of rules and standards). 

Now, a new crop of producers are taking these same concepts and applying them to their businesses as a whole. Is the certified biodynamic coffee you’re drinking truly biodynamic if the coffee pods were dried on a conventionally produced table? These are the kind of questions the truly hardcore are asking.

Deeply considering every element that touches products

Gérard Bertrand, who owns and operates 16 certified biodynamic wine estates in Languedoc and Roussillon, France, has been infusing business decisions with biodynamic ideas for decades. 

At the Minervois winery Clos d’Ora, the layout was designed so that sunlight hits a precise place in the barrel cellar during each solstice. And at Languedoc’s Clos du Temple, architect Francois Fontes designed the space to link sky and earth. Glass panels bring sunshine into the winery through the ceiling, while a mashrabiya (a latticework window that is characteristic of Islamic architecture) cools the heat the sun brings and casts patterns of light and shadow. 

“The sun, the star that anchors our system and shines bright for much of the year in this region, shapes our construction projects,” Bertrand explains. 

At his wine resort Chateau L’Hospitalet, Bertrand created a The Moon Room devoted to biodynamically rooted tastings. 

“Its light fixtures mimic celestial bodies, their glow, colors, and rhythms attuned to the dishes and wines served,” Bertrand explains. “Short narratives weave through the meal, inviting guests to sense the rhythms that guide our biodynamic work. This is more than a meal—it is a multisensory journey, an education, and a fresh way of looking at the heavens.”

Robert Eden, co-owner and winemaker at Chateau Maris, also built his winery in Languedoc based on the biodynamic approach. 

“Our cellar and winery is constructed from hemp bricks and wood to create a plant-based space that can receive external energies,” Eden explains. “Built this way, our winery’s operation is not impaired, and the energy is not repelled by artificial metals and other materials.”

The placement and construction of the building was also considered with the movement of groundwater and alignment to prevailing winds. 

Other vintners, like Count Michael Goess-Enzenberg, owner of Weingut Manincor in Alto Adige, Italy, embraces a holistic approach to biodynamic farming and business-building.

“We get everything possible from organic or biodynamic sources,” Goess-Enzenberg says. “Oak for our barriques, which we use to age our wines, comes from our own forest. Straw and manure for our compost comes from local farms in our neighborhood, which we mix with remains from grapes after they’ve been pressed.”

The quartz used for the biodynamic preparation 501 (a spray used to promote grape strength and health) is sourced from their local mountains. Goess-Enzenberg likens biodynamics to a broad lifestyle that requires wholesale commitment. 

“It brings our lives into balance,” he says. 

At Cullen Wines in Margaret River, Australia, winemaker and managing director Vanya Cullen has created a biodynamic bubble around her entire operation. In addition to farming her vineyards biodynamically, Cullen has a biodynamic produce garden that feeds the on-site restaurant.

Cullen also sources barrels sourced on fruit or flower days, according to the biodynamic calendar. (In the biodynamic farming calendar commonly followed by practitioners, fruit days occur when the moon is in a fire sign—Aries, Leo or Sagittarius; flower days occur when the moon is in an air sign—Gemini, Libra or Aquarius; root days occur when the moon is in the earth sign—Capricorn, Taurus or Virgo; leaf days occur when the moon is in a water sign—Caner, Scorpio or Pisces). 

“We were amazed at the difference between wine made in barrels harvested on fruit and flower days,” Cullen says. “Wine aged in barrels harvested on fruit days are bigger and more expressive. Flower day barrels impart minerality and structure. Overall, we find that wines made with biodynamic barrels as a whole taste more complete.”

Cullen has worked with her coopers to hone the barrel program even further, prioritizing wood harvested on a new moon descending. 

Applying holistic biodynamic ideas to staff management

Beth Hoinacki, owner and operator of Goodfoot Farm in Oregon’s Willamette Valley says that her work for the International Organic Inspectors Association made her realize that biodynamic operations often unconsciously extended their practices well beyond the farming itself. She became determined to conscientiously do so on her own vegetable and fruit farm. 

“I inspected organic and biodynamic farms, and I was always struck by the staff at biodynamic farms,” Hoinacki says. “From the people who are there working in the fields every day to the owners, there was clearly this beautiful dedication to what was happening, and the story they were telling about the universe and our interconnection through the food they were growing.”

There is something about the practice of growing food biodynamically by the rhythm of the planets, moon, sun and stars that seems to engage the minds and hearts of the people involved, Hoinacki notes. 

“I intuitively knew that traditional labor structures on farms were not healthy, so when I began hiring people, I began doing so through the lens of biodynamics with the goal of expressing the character of the farm as it exists,” she says. 

Instead of the traditional power and management structure of owner and employee, she gives her employees the power to collectively agree on hours, start times and breaks. Her decision rooted power on the farm, without allowing inputs from the outside world. 

“It is a system that feeds itself,” Hoinacki notes. “I work with them on the farm because I find working the land rewarding, so we get to make decisions together. Our team members love the system.”

On the other hand… 

Inevitably, there are many who are less than convinced of the merits of biodynamically minded business decisions. 

Wendy Parr, a wine scientist and oenologist at Lincoln University in New Zealand was among the researchers who wrote “Expectation or Sensorial Reality? An Empirical Investigation of the Biodynamic Calendar for Wine Drinkers,” published in the peer-reviewed Public Library of Science mega journal PLOS ONE. In the study, 19 wine pros were asked to taste 12 different Pinot Noirs on fruit and root days. Bottom line: they found the day made no difference.

“To date, there is no clear evidence that the calendar affects tasting,” Parr says. “We know from neuroscientists’ work that no two people ever experience a wine in precisely the same way because there are a myriad of neuro-physical and psychological variables that could be involved.”

Parr adds that there is “anecdotal evidence” that wines can show changes across fruit or root days. 

“I’ve met winemakers in Europe and New Zealand who wouldn’t rack off wine on a root or leaf day,” she says. “It is not for me to say what others should believe or practise. I will add that we did one study only. In the absence of further research, the issue remains unclear.”

The jury appears to be out on whether or not tasting on a fruit or root day will drastically alter your assessment of a wine. But even a few decades ago, the notion that biodynamic farming could improve soil health was unproven and widely ridiculed. 

Tasting special wines, planning farm and winery constructions and basing staff decisions on a biodynamic calendar and philosophy may seem slightly out there—but if it helps vintners and farmers create better products and teams, who are we to argue? 

The post Biodynamic Farms Are One Thing. What About Biodynamic Businesses? appeared first on Modern Farmer.

When Michael Kotutwa Johnson goes out to the acreage behind his stone house to harvest his corn, his fields look vastly different from the endless rows of corn you see in much of rural North America. Bundled in groups of five or six, his corn stalks shoot out of the sandy desert in bunches, resembling bushels rather than tightly spaced rows. “We don’t do your typical 14-inch spaced rows,” he says.

Instead, Kotutwa Johnson, an enrolled member of the Hopi tribe, practices the Hopi tradition he learned from his grandfather on the Little Colorado River Plateau near Kykotsmovi Village in northeastern Arizona, a 90-minute drive from Flagstaff: “In spring, we plant eight to 10 corn kernels and beans per hole, further apart, so the clusters all stand together against the elements and preserve the soil moisture.” For instance, high winds often blow sand across the barren plateau. “This year was a pretty hot and dry year, but still, some of the crops I raised did pretty well,” he says with a satisfied smile. “It’s a good year for squash, melons and beans. I’ll be able to propagate these.”

Dry farming has been a Hopi tradition for several millennia. Kotutwa Johnson might build some protection for his crops with desert brush or cans to shield them from the wind, but his plants thrive without any fertilizer, pesticides, herbicides, mulch or irrigation. This is all the more impressive since his area usually gets less than 10 inches of rain per year.

In the era of climate change, the practice of dry farming is met with growing interest from scientists and researchers as farmers grapple with droughts and unpredictable weather patterns. For instance, the Dry Farming Institute in Oregon lists a dozen farms it partners with, growing anything from tomatoes to zucchini. However, Oregon has wet winters, with an annual rainfall of over 30 inches, whereas on the plateau in Arizona, Johnson’s crops get less than a third of that. Farmers in Mexico, the Middle East, Argentina, Southern Russia and Ukraine all have experimented with dry farming, relying on natural rainfall, though conditions and practices vary in each region.

For Kotutwa Johnson, it’s a matter of faith and experience. Between April and June, he checks the soil moisture to determine which crops to plant and how deep. He uses the traditional wooden Hopi planting stick like his ancestors, because preserving the top soil by not tilling is part of the practice. “We don’t need moisture meters or anything like that,” he explains. “We plant everything deep, for instance, the corn goes 18 inches deep, depending on where the seeds will find moisture,” relying on the humidity from the melted winter snow and annual monsoon rains in June.

His harvest looks unique, too. “We know 24 varieties of indigenous corn,” he says, showing off kernels in indigo blue, purple red, snow white, and yellow. His various kinds of lima and pinto beans shimmer in white, brown, merlot red and mustard yellow. Studies have shown that indigenous maize is more nutritious, richer in protein and minerals than conventional corn, and he hopes to confirm similar results with his own crops in his role as professor at the School of Natural Resources and the Environment at the University of Arizona, and as a core faculty member with the fledgling Indigenous Resilience Center, which focuses on researching resilient solutions for Indigenous water, food and energy independence. He earned a PhD in natural resources, focusing on Indigenous agricultural resilience, not least to “have a seat at the table and level the playing field, so mainstream stakeholders can really hear me,” he says. “I’m not here to be the token Native; I’m here to help.” For instance, he attended COP 28, the 2023 United Nations climate change conference in Dubai, to share his knowledge about “the reciprocal relationship with our environment.”

“I’m not here to be the token Native; I’m here to help.”

Kotutwa Johnson was born in Germany because his dad was in the military, but he spent the summers with his grandfather planting corn, squash, beans and melons the Indigenous way in the same fields he’s farming now, where he eventually built an off-grid stone house with his own hands. “As a kid, I hated farming because it’s hard work,” he admits with disarming honesty, followed by a quick laugh. “But later I saw the wisdom in it. We’ve done this for well over 2,000 or 3,000 years. I’m a 250th-generation Hopi farmer.”

Unlike many other Indigenous tribes, the Hopi weren’t driven off their land by European settlers. “We’re very fortunate that we were never relocated,” Kotutwa Johnson says. “We chose this land, and we’ve learned to adapt to our harsh environment. The culture is tied into our agricultural system, and that’s what makes it so resilient.”

However, the Hopi tribe doesn’t own the land. Legally, the United States holds the title to the 1.5 million acres of reservation the Hopi occupy in Northwestern Arizona, a fraction of their original territory. Kotutwa Johnson estimates that only 15 percent of his community still farms, down from 85 percent in the 1930s, and some Hopi quote the lack of land ownership as an obstacle.

Like on many reservations, the Hopi live in a food desert, where tribal members have to drive one or two hours to find a major supermarket in Flagstaff or Winslow. High rates of diabetes and obesity are a consequence of lacking easy access to fresh produce. “If you’re born here you have a 50 percent chance of getting diabetes,” Kotutwa Johnson says. “To me, this is the original harm: the disruption of our traditional foods. By bringing back the food, you also bring back the culture.”

Traditionally, Hopi women are the seed keepers, and the art of dry farming starts with the right seeds. “These seeds adapted to having no irrigation, and so they are very valuable,” Kotutwa Johnson says. He is fiercely protective of the seeds he propagates and only exchanges them with other tribal members within the community.

In that spirit, he was overjoyed to receive 800-year-old corn ears from a man who recently found them in a cave in Glen Canyon. Kotutwa Johnson planted the corn, and about a fifth actually sprouted. He raves about the little white corn ears he was able to harvest: “It’s so amazing we got to bring these seeds home. It was like opening up an early Christmas present.”

From a traditional perspective, “we were given things to survive,” he says. “In our faith, we believe the first three worlds were destroyed, and when we came up to this world, we were given a planting stick, some seeds and water by a caretaker who was here before us.”

He doesn’t believe that climate change can be stopped. “But we can adapt to it, and our seeds can adapt.” This is a crucial tenet of Hopi farming: Instead of manipulating the environment, they raise crops and cultivate seeds that adjust to their surroundings. His crops grow deep roots that stretch much farther down into the ground than conventional plants.

“Our faith tells us that we need to plant every single year no matter what we see,” even in drought years, he explains. “Some years, we might not plant much, but we still plant regardless because those plants are like us, they need to adapt.”

Dry farming is “not very economically efficient,” he admits. “Everything is driven towards convenience nowadays. We’re not trying to make a big buck out here; we’re here to maintain our culture and practice things we’ve always done to be able to survive.”

Kotutwa Johnson does not sell his produce. He keeps a percentage of the seeds to propagate and gives the rest to relatives and his community or trades it for other produce.

But his vision far surpasses his nine acres. He wants to pass on his dry farming methods to the next generation, just as he learned them from his grandfather, and he often invites youth to participate in farming workshops and communal planting. That’s why he recently started the Fred Aptvi Foundation, named after his grandfather, to focus on establishing a seed bank and a Hopi youth agricultural program that incorporates the Hopi language. Aptvi means “one who plants besides another,” Kotutwa Johnson explains. “It’s about revitalizing what’s there, not reinventing it.”

The post Growing Corn in the Desert, No Irrigation Required appeared first on Modern Farmer.

The apiary they are building will produce honey for their secret recipe plans for the statewide Kalo Challenge, which is the culmination of their nine-month program that centers the ancestral practice of cultivating the Hawaiian staple crop kalo (taro), and serves as a competition where they do presentations on their cultural education, as well as present innovative recipes for competition. 

Naʻau ʻŌiwi, which means “native gut,” is in its third year at Kohala High School, as part of the Hawai’i Department of Education’s Alternative Learning Programs, which partners with 33 schools across the islands and trades the conventional classroom for ʻāina (land)-based cultural education, where students can earn the same credits for graduation.

The students of Naʻau ʻŌiwi like to call this AlterNATIVE Learning and follow the ‘ōlelo no’eau, or Hawai’ian proverb “A’ohe pau ka ‘ike ka hālau ho’okahi,” meaning not all knowledge is taught in one school.  

Three years ago, the program started with only two students; now there are 12. They spend each day at a different farm, ranch, or cultural learning program area throughout rural Kohala with various organizations. At each location, they have plots with different varieties of kalo.

The first year, they won with kalo pizza. Last year, they presented them with “kalo-min”—which was a creative take on saimin—a side dish of hō’i’o (fiddle-head fern) salad, and deep-fried panko-breaded kulolo, a kalo-based dessert, that was accompanied by coconut ice cream and a haupia drizzle.

Even more impressive is that through their partnership with Hawai’i Land Trust, they harvested a kiawe tree log at Mãhukona and made stunning trays on which to serve the food, and chopsticks for the judge’s utensils. 

In Māhukona, they built beehives under the tutelage of instructors from Ho’ōla Honey, a Native Hawai’ian-owned beekeeping business and rescue. There, their partner organization is Hawai’i Land Trust (HILT), which recently acquired the coastal lands to protect and conserve the area, that much like the rest of Hawai’i, has deep cultural significance to many generational families, and is also a historic training area for traditional Hawai’ian navigators who traveled by wa’a, or canoe.

According to Keone Emiliano, the land steward and educator for Māhukona with HILT, when the students aren’t building beehive boxes, they have been planting native plants, like the kukui nut tree, along with tending their kalo patch.

“It’s not just about what they tell us to do [with planting], it’s learning about the place, about its history, the people that used to be there, what they did, the way they lived and what they used it for, the tools and canoes, and cultivating the land,” says Alex Faisca, who is in his second year with Naʻau ʻŌiwi.

Faisca adds that his parents say he is very lucky that he and the other students have this program, because they never had anything like it growing up. 

In fact, when their lead teacher Aoloa Patao was growing up, the only thing he learned about being Native Hawai’ian was what he saw in the Adam Sandler film 50 First Dates, and he wouldn’t learn more until college. He then had to learn on his own afterwards. 

Many were in this boat. Due to colonial influences in the late 1800s, Hawai’ian cultural education in public schools was suppressed for many years, until the cultural renaissance of the 1970s, when there was more demand for the reinstitution of this kind of education in schools and colleges. Despite the state’s constitution being amended to mandate it, instruction was limited; however, more initiatives started happening over the years, particularly after the establishment of the Office of Hawai’ian Education in 2015 alongside the development of the Nā Hopena A’o framework. 

Nā Hopena A’o is a department-wide framework to help guide the public education system based on Hawaiian values, culture, history, and language, as well as aiming to develop skills and behaviors that honor the qualities and values of the indigenous language and culture of Hawaiʻi.​ 

Patao is happy to be part of remedying that issue for the students. “It makes me feel good about their potential and the future of our community, and that they are in a better position to know who they are and not have to try to figure it out on their own,” says Patao.

Other partner organizations are the voyaging nonprofit Nā Kālai Wa`a—where the students learn to connect the relationships between traditional sailing and kalo—LT Ranch, which prioritizes cultural learning for Native Hawai’ian youth, and ‘Iole Hawai’i, a new Indigenous learning lab on 2,400 acres, that combines ancient wisdom and modern technology for sustainability solutions. 

“All this stuff, it helps in life. It’s not about what you are doing, but how you are doing it, with patience, perseverance, and problem-solving skills.”

“All this stuff, it helps in life. It’s not about what you are doing, but how you are doing it, with patience, perseverance, and problem-solving skills,” says fellow senior Daylan Kaitoku, adding that it’s almost like a college setting, because he gets to learn about weather stations, pH testers and soil testers. “And on top of that, there’s a cultural aspect to it,” he says. 

Each year, the students have also created an educational component for the area’s elementary kids.

In the first year, the first two students had never heard the origin story of kalo until they were juniors in high school, so to make sure the younger generation didn’t have to go as long as they did to connect to it, they made a children’s book about the backstory, which is the Native Hawai’ian mo`olelo (story) of Hāloa, which involves the birth of the Hawai’ian people and the connection Hawai’ians have to kalo, not just as a food source but as an ancestor. 

They passed the book on to the elementary school children, with the Department of Education backing them by printing 200 copies. The following year, the students developed a card game called Go Kalo, inspired by the classic game Go Fish, featuring all 22 parts of the kalo plant.

“It was a good idea, because instead of just matching the cards [like in Go Fish], you can learn,” says student Ihilani Leong, who did a lot of the design. Each card tells what part it is, its location on the plant, and what it looks like. 

Much like the plans for this year’s Kalo Challenge, what they are doing for the youth is still being formulated. However, out of all the things they are doing with the program, Kaitoku hopes “that the seed that’s planted grows into wisdom, knowledge, and hope for the next generation.”

The post Spotlight On the Students Growing Kalo in Hawai’i appeared first on Modern Farmer.

Mary Oxendine grew up in Robeson County, NC, among the Lumbee people. As a child of multigenerational farmers, she grew up picking peas and butterbeans, working with her grandmother making sausages, and plucking chickens. 

As an adult, she worked her way up in the local government’s food security program.  But when her father passed, she found herself reconnecting with farmers in the fields.   

“I was looking for what made me feel grounded and what made me feel like I belonged. And, I just started growing things. I got a community plot at Hawk’s Nest Healing Gardens… and really felt like I was reconnecting with myself and with the land and with my ancestors,” says Oxendine. “For me, it’s really about having a deep relationship with the plants and with the rest of nature, caring for them like you would actual family—gently picking up their branches. There’s a deep relationship and reciprocity, because I care for them and then they care for me.” 

Oxendine says this interconnectedness colors her every choice and step and that it is inherently an Indigenous mindset. 

“If we spray an insecticide, yes, maybe it kills that one insect, but it also could potentially impact other pollinators that will decrease my yield,” says Oxendine. “It’s impacting birds and the ecosystem and affecting the water and drinkability of water for humans, but also the water toxins that are impacting fish and other wildlife in the water. To me, the best way to impact climate is before you do something, think deeply and ask what are the real impacts of that act.”

Historic violent storms, destructive floods, rising sea levels and melting polar ice caps dominate our lives and headlines. But, are we past the point of no return, or can we still have a positive impact on the planet and life on it?

Climate scientists and US leaders believe so, although the window is narrow.

But how can we change course, and who has the answers? Oxendine believes Native farmers deserve a word.

Native environmental views can fight climate change 

Despite measures taken since, human activity and the El Nino phenomenon continued to accelerate global warming to the point of experiencing the hottest years on record in 2023 and 2024. One wonders, with cutting-edge scientific advances, national and international mitigations, and an increasingly common understanding of climate change, why does the problem persist so tenaciously?

Beth Roach is a member of the Nottoway Indians of Virginia. She is also the co-founder and owner of Alliance of Native Seedkeepers, Bertie County Seeds retail shop, and Quitsna Conniot ancestral gardens with Justin “Fix” Račhakwáhstha Cain, who is Tuscarora (Skaroreh Katenuaka).

They both have extensive lived experience as land stewards, as well as deep multi-generational connections to agriculture and forestry stewardship.

“We study our local environment intensely [all day, every day] and notice both subtle and dramatic changes,” says Roach. “From these observations, we adapt our practices. We anticipate changes in our growing zones and educate others. We advocate for climate adaptation planning through Indigenous frameworks.”

They were able to ascertain early that the hardiness zone where they live was shifting due to climate change, and are already taking preventative steps to nurture seeds and plants that would be endangered. As important as modern-day scientific methods and data are, they also have a unique take on understanding our woodlands ecosystem by learning from the past.

“We utilize traditional place names and translate them in order to understand how our ancestors saw the water and land,” says Roach. “Additionally, we use these translations to assess changes in our ecosystem and climate.” 

Roach and her colleagues believe that Native people know the story of the land, and have the connections through lived experience, oral histories passed down, blood memory and documented history to understand where it has been, what their ancestors observed, and what it needs to thrive into the future.

And the land responds in kind to mindful stewardship. For example, simple but measured clearing of invasive plants, such as cultural burning, yields surprising results when Earth is allowed to finally breathe. Native plants spring up once again from the freed soil. Loving fertilized with the ash of its stewards, the forest is cleansed of excessive pests and invasives safely for established growth to flourish.

However, industrial carbon dioxide, PFAS, chlorines, bromides, CFCs and plastics harm air quality and increase temperatures, accumulate in rain and waterways or deplete protective ozone layers and cause contamination long after their release. Not only is the story of the land unknown, unwanted, and dishonored by apathetic corporate self-serving, it is actively quashed by intimidation, violence and legislative manipulation. And the land responds to this as well.

A climate-conscious approach must first honor the land, its people, and its story.

Creating programs for and with Native people 

One of the programs created to put Native voices first in the discussion of climate change is First Nations Development Institute’s Stewarding Native Lands program. It has offices in Nevada and New Mexico, and serves tribes as well as Native nonprofits across the nation and it has five program areas. The stewardship program overlaps with food sovereignty and cultural programs because they are so intertwined culturally.

The stewardship program has four initiatives, and one that specifically addresses climate. Mary Adelzadeh, senior program officer with the institute, has much to say regarding increasing the capacity of Native land stewardship models. She also stresses operating from a mindset and position of strength—as overcomers—not victims.

“Because when you think about this climate challenge, it is rooted in the fact that Native people and their knowledge was contained onto reservation systems, and in order to really have a transformative change in climate, we really need to invest in the adaptive capacity of these Native communities, to be able to scale it out.”  

The Stewarding Native Lands program works toward supporting co-management and co-stewardship of federal lands. These are sovereign-to-sovereign agreements, where tribes could enter into these arrangements with federal entities such as the Bureau of Land Management, the Forest Service, and National Park Service.

Their focus is land access, establishing and bolstering the workforce, and the nuts and bolts of what it would take to scale Native land stewardship. The traditional Western conservation frameworks weren’t designed for and are not really accessible to tribes. Her approach is that new conservation, finance, opportunities that are directly accessible to tribes should be decided upon.

Along the lines of investment, Amir Kirkwood, CEO of Justice Climate Fund, spoke about their works with programs empowering such endeavors. One is the Clean Communities Investment Accelerator (CCIA) program, part of the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) Greenhouse Gas Reduction Fund (GGRF) program.

“That program was really designed to have community lenders—could be banks, CDFIs, could be other funds—that did not have existing climate or greenhouse gas reduction programs in place, to basically fund their ability to build a program at their individual organization for the benefit of the communities,” he says.

The fund was awarded $940 million on August 16. The idea is that by working with those banks at the community level, they can help them to not only deploy capital in greenhouse gas reductions but raise outside capital to compliment federal funding, and utilize that as wrap-around funding for initiatives with additional community benefits—such as job creation, supporting local businesses, or contributing to better health outcomes in those communities. 

“So, that’s where community banks have always been a valuable asset locally, is that they have that comprehensive focus on the communities. And so, this is exciting because it’s able to add to what they already do, with some of the work around climate finance as well,” says Kirkwood. 

Reclaiming land

Some independent projects are already having groundbreaking impact in their communities as well as restorative climate implications. One such initiative is Makoce Ikikcupi, a Reparative Justice project on Dakota land in Minisota Makoce (Minnesota). Ahán Heȟáka Sápa (Luke Black Elk, Thitȟuŋwaŋ Lakota) works with the program as a farm director. It’s a Dakota-run organization out of Minnesota, and the name actually means “Land Reclamation.”

Currently, they have purchased three separate pieces of land situated throughout Minnesota, and Ahán Heȟáka Sápa is the farm director for their second village site, Hohwoju Otunwe (Village of Vibrant Growth). It is located near Mountain Lake, Minnesota, which is a small town in southern Minnesota. There are a couple of different groups, or what’s modernly called tribes. But they all fall under what they call the Očhéthi Šakówiŋ, which means the Seven Councils Fires. 

“One of the things that Indigenous people really lack is access to land. My tribe has control of two million acres on the books, but really we only have about a million acres accessible to our people. And even then, we have been taught by the capitalist education system that we should be sort of fearful in going outside and picking natural plants or you know, even so much as growing your own food,” says Ahán Heȟáka Sápa.

They consider themselves to be free Oceti people, and aren’t funded by any tribal organization or tribal entity, to avoid a precedent of Native people buying land back with their own money. 

“We don’t want to set a precedent for our children to have to find their own funding and use their own money to do this, because it’s really still ours, this land that we’re around. All of Minnesota was once Dakota territory and we really feel strongly about coming back to this area,” says Ahán Heȟáka Sápa.

Chana J. White is a mother, grandmother, farmer, and Master Beekeeper. She works with Whitaker Small Farm Group and Eastern North Carolina Farmer Collaborative, and also owns and operates Native Brand Honey. One challenge faced even in Indigenous circles is disenfranchisement from cultural and foodways; however, White speaks of the benefits of access to oral histories and elder wisdom, which she can pass on to next generations of agriculturalists and climate keepers.

“Thankfully, we have some old heads still around that let us know and have taught us when to plant root crops, above the ground crops, when to seed, and when to pull weeds. We even watch certain animals because they know when rain is coming. I believe it’s important to listen and pay attention,” she says.

Can we imagine a society that honors the Earth instead of exploiting it?

This will only happen as Native voices are sought for solutionary committees and legislative decisions in every locale, compensated for their contributions, and renewed to their ancestral homelands for restorative land stewardship and ownership.

Beth Roach can see it also. “Ensuring Native engagement and leadership of our water, land, and seeds ensures protection of each for many more generations to come. Inspired by the traditional wisdom of seven-generational thinking, we envision a future where our children and theirs can thrive in harmony with the Earth, cradling their culture and justice in equal measure,” she says.

The post How Native Farmers Pair Ancestral Knowledge with Climate Expertise appeared first on Modern Farmer.

Like why we primarily eat chicken eggs, for instance, but never see turkey benedict on the menu? Or why North Americans eschew mutton, and it’s taboo to eat swans?

In this collection, we’ve gathered 10 of our most popular, delicious foodies stories. Dig in, and enjoy.

The post 10 Fascinating Food Stories to Share Over Dinner appeared first on Modern Farmer.