Two Sides of the Apple Orchard

My relationship with growing apples began in 2011, in Tunuyan, Argentina, right at the base of the Andes Mountains. On a bitterly cold late fall day, I joined a crew of WWOOF volunteers to harvest the last of the Granny Smiths. The orchard was primarily Red Delicious, but Granny Smiths were planted every so often for pollination. The Red Delicious apples were used for pressing apple juice and fermenting vinegar, and the Granny Smith were stored in the root cellar for winter's eating. See, if you let a few good frosts fall on the Granny Smith, the green changes in places to slight pink, and the flavor expands from sour to sweet. 

I was eighteen years old, and I had a strong trust that my guiding spirit was leading me towards an unfolding biography that would integrate agriculture with spirituality. I knew immediately that this farm held keys for my future. Here I met the orchard. Here I met Maria Thun's calendar, natural building, romance, gardening, dancing, and here I met community. An agrarian community founded to host new ideas. 

But back to the apples. There were roughly twelve acres planted into apple trees. Half the orchard was 40 years old, and was kept in relatively standard organic practice. Cover crops, regular irrigation during the growing season, annual pruning to an open vase system, composted manure applications, understory mowing, occasional soil cultivation and the thinning of fruit. This was the most productive part of the apple orchard. The open vase pruning system lends itself well to three ladder position harvesting, which enabled speed of harvest. The rows and understory were neatly maintained with mowing and cultivation, enabling ease of access for the orchardists to work. In this system, the input and output were both high, and it drove a small business. The work was accomplished with volunteers and extended family, which enabled other, more spiritual, cultural projects to exist in the surrounding time. 

The other half of the apple orchard was roughly one hundred years old. This half was cared for in an entirely different manner, inspired by the natural farming writings of Masanobu Fukuoka. The only input into this orchard system was flood irrigation. Meaning, the trees were never pruned, no compost or other fertilizers were applied, fruit was not thinned, the soil was never disturbed and the under story was never mowed. 

The trees in the second half of the orchard, or what we can call the old orchard, were tall. All the trees were grafted onto a standard, probably seedling, rootstock. Which means that the trees could grow to their full height and were not inhibited in growth and form by the rootstock. 

Since this old orchard had been abandoned for decades before the family bought the farm, about one third of the original old trees had died back. In their places, the seedling rootstock had thrown up new trees. As you may know, every apple seed is a genetic individual. Plant every seed in an apple and you will have that many entirely unique apple cultivars! Each of these seedling trees were unique, and most were delicious. Red, green, yellow, keepers, saucers, juicers, cider apples and dessert apples. The diversity these apples brought was starkly evident amidst the panorama of the Red Delicious and scattered Granny Smith orchard. 

The understory of the old orchard was an important feature; here too, diversity was widely noted. Grass, small shrubs, vines, large swaths of herbaceous biennials claimed their territories, and so on. The insects and animal life abounded as well! Here the native bees could be found, foxes and local honey bees thronged to this rewilded patch of orchard. 

When we worked in the young orchard, tasks were clear, like the lines of the trees. Work was quick and effective. The crew dutifully felt like cogs in a well-oiled system, moving the apples to the juicing room, and there was purpose in this work. But once we experienced the old orchard, its quality engrossed us, and we knew something was missing in the young orchard. 

The entire system interacted with us in a more complex way. Harvesting was a rewilding experience, and a lesson in the cultivation of patience. Longer, heavy ladders were used, and finding their feet amidst the thick underbrush was exhausting. You could barely walk a straight line through it. One had to traverse fallen trees, ant hills, dense undergrowth and uneven ground. Many apples were lost to the underbrush; perhaps these "lost" apples were an important part of the fertility cycle of the old orchard. Accompanying the lack of thinning the fruit, harvest was strongly biennial in nature, leading to boom-and- bust years of production. In the old orchard, the apples were fewer and smaller, yet their flavors were far more interesting. This complexity held a warmth of heart, which matched our humanity in a certain way. 

These two different systems of management were employed for a variety of reasons. Originally, the farm family did not have enough time, energy or capital to "restore" or replant the old half of the orchard. So leaving it be was a decision made from necessity. Over time, the "old" orchard became a place of philosophical discourse. What is the relationship between humanity and nature? How do our actions affect outcome? How can outcome be measured? When can humanity reach into nature and make a medicine, and when does humanity's reach into nature make a poison? This discourse was a guiding stream in our lives during this time. It was an open question that this farm hosted, and around thirty or so volunteers every year visited to experience it.

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For more inspiration in real time, join an Awakin Call converation this weekend with Ezra Sullivan: RSVP here.