Who Rules the Roost?

I hate roost mites. Roost mites (or chicken mites, or red mites) are nearly invisible blood-suckers that are transmitted to chickens by wild birds. They multiply like crazy in warm weather. They bother the chickens and can even kill them under the right circumstances. And I hate that creepy-crawly feeling! Ewww! Get ’em off me! Humans are a non-target species, but still … yuck!

I have an article about them here. Roost mites live in cracks and crevices in the chicken house, in littler, and especially on roosts and in nest boxes. Roost mites are easy to control once you know they’re there, but they’re pretty stealthy — right up to the point where their population explodes and they’re everywhere. Roost mites are particularly dangerous to broody hens, who sit around in the danger zone 24/7, instead of spending all day outdoors like the rest of the hens.

While roost mites are easily killed with insecticide, this doesn’t kill the eggs, so it usually takes at least two applications to get ’em. More, if you miss any. I don’t know about you, but spending my summers spraying houses over and over with bug poison is not why I got into alternative agriculture. It’s unaesthetic.

Still, you gotta take care of the hens. When using insecticide, I prefer Malathion, which has almost no persistence at all (its half-life is only eight hours), so pesticide build-up is a non-issue. It’s also nearly impossible to poison a chicken or yourself with Malathion. Some of the things recommended in old-time poultry books were amazingly toxic (nicotine sulfate, sodium fluoride), or poisonous, carcinogenic, and generally disgusting (creosote). Don’t use those.

For longer-lasting protection, the traditional solution is a good one: oil the roosts with any kind of non-drying oil, and it will kill the mites. The oil will stay liquid and potent, at least in the cracks and crevices where the mites prefer to hide. Many oils have been used for this. Linseed oil works and smells great. Used motor oil also works great and is free, but it’s less pleasant than other oils. I changed the oil in my tractor yesterday and used the old oil to paint roosts areas around nest boxes that looked like it could use it. The dry wood soaked up the oil very quickly, so it’s not like the chickens are going to leave oily footprints everywhere. If I’d had a bucket of used french-fry oil, I would have used that, though I’m a little concerned that edible oils might attract mold or insects or french-fry pixies or something. I’ll try it someday.

The last time I did this, the treated areas seemed to stay mite-free for over a year, in spite of the wood seeming completely dry to me. Mites are almost microscopic, so no doubt they experience things differently.

As always, it turned out that anything that causes me to spend time in the chicken house resulted in my noticing things I’d missed before. (Half of farming consists of slowing down and paying attention.) I found mite-filled areas in places under the nest boxes where I had never suspected them before, though I’ve had that nest house for years.

The last time I did this, the oil smelled to high heaven. Something must have been wrong with the engine that the oil came out of, or the oil must have been a million years old. (Well, okay, all oil is a million years old. That’s why they call it a fossil fuel. But you know what I mean.) This time, it didn’t smell at all. Painting roosts is an odd way to monitor engine health, but there you go.

The other things I need to do are to reattach the door to the nest house so I can exclude the hens at night and keep the broodies out of there (It blew off in a windstorm and I haven’t gotten around to reattaching it, since I usually leave it wide open anyway) and move all the houses to a new patch of ground, which will leave most of the surviving mites behind. Finally, I’ll take my remaining wood-stove ashes and dump them in the hens’ favorite dust-bathing sites. Juicing up the dust baths with ashes helps rid the hens of lice and mites.

Predator News

We found a couple of additional game trails with telltale feathers here and there, showing that chickens had been taken that way by predators, and we set some more snares. So far we’ve caught a large raccoon in addition to the previously reported bobcat, and predation seems to be down.

I should mention that I learned predator control partly from the local Federal trapper (courtesy of the USDA-APHIS Wildlife Damage Program), partly from the instructional DVD that came with the Dakotaline Snare Package I bought to get myself started with my own snaring, and partly from Hal Sullivan’s excellent book, Snaring 2000

The latter two products get you up and running very quickly and easily. Catching predators with snares is easier and far more targeted than I thought. This is partly due to changes in snaring technology that have taken place over the past 20 years or so, and partly due to the fact that game trails are laughably easy to identify. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that a game trail with chicken feathers on it, that heads straight onto my chicken pasture (through the electric fence), is not the work of an innocent creature.

I only recently started using snares. I used to rely on the Federal trapper. Unfortunately, the Wildlife Damage Service relies on matching funds from the county, and Benton County (in spite of being the home of an agricultural college) is run by clueless city slickers who think that all wildlife is cute and cuddly. Their understanding of rural issues is still at the Little Golden Book level.

In general, if you have a farm, you want to live in a rural county, where county government is run by farmers, since they know what’s what in the country. Ideally, you would be in a rural county that’s adjacent to an urban one, thus giving you a city market without having to put up with city cluelessness.

Rabbit Resurrection

My 1975 VW Rabbit came home rejuvenated from the shop today. (As I wrote in an earlier post, restoring my 33-year-old Rabbit, which has been in my family since it was new, is the method I’ve chosen for achieving better gas mileage). Its main problem was that it had about a half-inch of rusty sludge in the bottom of the gas tank. This (and the underlying problem of water finding its way into the gas tank) had caused a variety of problems. The good people at the Independent Auto Werks in Corvallis cleaned the tank, blew out the fuel lines, did a partial rebuild of the carburetor (including replacing a clogged idle jet — no wonder it didn’t want to run!), and now the car is running better than it has in years, maybe decades.

An old Rabbit handles like an old-fashioned British sports car — stiff suspension, responsive steering, with a little engine but also very lightweight. They’re fun to drive but can carry a lot of stuff, though I’d take something bigger if I were making a special trip to the feed mill.

In a while I’ll take it down to the body shop run by one of my neighbors (G&R Body Shop in Philomath, Oregon) and see what it will take to get it prepped and painted.

So far, this project looks to be a lot cheaper and more fun than getting a newer subcompact economy car, and the gas mileage ought to be about the same as a new one. (Actually, this old Rabbit gets about 30 MPG, while a brand-new one only gets about 25 MPG). And it amuses me that the car I learned to drive on has gone from “new car” to “used car,” “old car,” “piece of junk,” and “collectible classic.”


Scratch One Bobcat

I found a bobcat in one of my snares yesterday, which was Day Three of having snares out. It was a big male — 26 pounds. Most my chicken losses are consistent with how bobcats hunt (dawn or dusk, with a short chase, a quick kill, and the chicken carried away without being dragged), but I think I’m losing chickens faster than can be explained by a single bobcat, however big, so I’ll keep up my anti-predator efforts.

My flock size and egg output are down to shockingly low levels, thanks to large numbers of hens vanishing without a trace. I only had 13 dozen to take to the Farmer’s Market on Saturday, where a few weeks ago I was routinely selling over 50 dozen even on a slow day.

The stealthiness of the local predators probably means that I can’t rely on the electric fence as my only permanent anti-predator measure — I have to do more.

Rural Trade-Offs

Living in the country requires trade-offs, and so does farming. Taking vacations in February instead of August, for example.

Sometimes the trade-offs seem like a good deal. Corvallis has an excellent fireworks display every Fourth of July, but we are so far north that the city waits until it’s fully dark at about 10:15 PM before starting the display. After it’s done, there’s a brief traffic jam and then (if you’re me) a half-hour drive home.

I decided a while back to never drive if it’s past my bedtime. It’s way too dangerous. So we spend the night in Corvallis at the Super 8 motel. The odd-numbered rooms on the third floor have a wonderful view of the fireworks. So much for late-night driving!

An added bonus is that the Riverfront Park in front of the motel is swarmed by holiday-goers who set off their store-bought fireworks while waiting for the Main Event. It’s a madhouse, but in a good way. My kids like joining in.

Our fourteen-year-old, Karl, who is autistic, found the flash and bang a little overwhelming (even with a set of hearing protectors on), and was greatly delighted to be able to retreat into the motel room, where he could still see and hear everything.

(If you have an autistic kid who hasn’t tried hearing protectors (Karl likes the standard 3M over-the-ear kind), give it a whirl. Karl can enjoy environments he found overpowering before.)

This year, with the Fourth of July on a Friday, we loaded the van with all our Farmer’s Market stuff so we’d be ready for the market the next morning. In fact, the motel is only two blocks away from the market.

Not too many years ago, I wouldn’t have sprung for a motel room, on the grounds of misplaced macho. It’s better to focus on what’s going to provide the best outing, and to cut oneself some slack into the bargain.