The lambs were born in a wave on Tuesday, as they tend to be.
Seven ewes were all in labor at the same time that morning, halfway through the monthlong height of lambing season at Waldoview Farm in Winterport.
Farmer Tom Hodgman and his employee Abby Slater usually get just a few hours of sleep at a time in February, checking cameras throughout the night as almost 70 Katahdin sheep give birth – often to twins, sometimes triplets.
They expected a break after the Tuesday rush. But around 5 p.m. the next day, one ewe showed signs of labor: her right side looked sunken in, showing that a lamb had moved from her abdomen to the birth canal. She had started circling, pawing, sniffing at the ground and baa-ing.
“This time of year, if you go out to the barn, you don’t know what time you’ll come back,” said Hodgman, who has been raising sheep at the former dairy farm for more than 20 years. He bought his first acreage there from an ad in Uncle Henry’s, adding parcels for the barn and grazing land.
Lambing season typically runs from late January or early February through the start of spring on Maine farms, bringing new animals that will keep barns lively and businesses running for another year.
It’s an action-packed season – “It comes all at once, and then it’s over,” Hodgman said – but a rewarding one as the farmers rely on one another to get through the long nights and occasionally complicated births. An evening in the barn is an early sign that spring is ahead and a glimpse into a side of animal agriculture that Hodgman believes has broad potential to be accessible for young Maine farmers today.
The sheep at Waldoview made a loud, hungry chorus Wednesday evening as he and Slater fed them grain, followed by a second course of hay. Older lambs ran circles in a pack as the ewes ate, a regular event of contagious excitement that the farmers call the “lamb races.” They move almost like a school of porpoises, Hodgman observed, jumping in turn as they run.
Waldoview Farm, which he owns with his wife, Lindsay, is mainly a “seed stock” operation that sells sheep to other farms across the east coast for breeding. The family also sells meat direct to consumers and wholesale to local stores, along with “feeder lambs,” which people buy in the spring to raise themselves until ready for butchering.
This is a second career for Hodgman, 62, a former wildlife biologist raised in a 4-H family. But he’s also a believer that raising sheep is an affordable way for young farmers to get started despite challenges including expensive land and equipment prices, along with troubles in the state’s traditional dairy industry.
“We look at sheep as a gateway to animal agriculture for many people,” he said.
One ewe can produce and raise four market-ready lambs in the time it takes to raise one calf, he said; they’re more affordable to buy, need less expensive infrastructure, are easier to handle and can provide other income streams, such as grazing services or fiber.
Waldoview raises Katahdin breed sheep, which have hair instead of wool, meaning they shed instead of needing to be sheared. That spares time and expense for farmers who raise them for meat.
They’re self-sufficient mothers that produce hardy lambs, and they are resistant to worms, which can be a big problem for sheep farmers. Overusing chemical dewormers creates resistance that reduces their effectiveness; Waldoview’s adult sheep have been selectively bred to the point that they don’t need to be dewormed at all.
The breed was developed in Piscataquis County beginning in the 1950s by Michael Piel, a farmer who wanted to focus on meat qualities while eliminating the hassle of shearing. Katahdins have become increasingly popular around the country since, particularly among small farmers and homesteaders.
When a lamb is born, Hodgman is immediately looking at its features and thinking about who he might breed it with in a year or two, the outcome of hours he spent as an admitted “spreadsheet nut” planning out genetics.
Some decisions are made to dovetail the strengths and weaknesses between the ewe and ram, Slater explained, while others focus on promoting one strong trait. Such was the case with Pork Chop, one of the six rams used this year, a “one trick pony” with few redeeming qualities other than his truly exceptional worm resistance.
“That’s his superpower, and it’s a real, real superpower,” Hodgman said.
After the oats and pellets disappeared on Wednesday, the ewe barn quieted while the farmers finished their chores. Sheep chewed their cud. Overhead, a radio played quietly as it does throughout the season. This night, it was tuned to the University of Maine’s student station.
A watched pot never boils, Hodgman reminded a reporter, who waited beside the laboring ewe’s pen in a chair with a piece of foam bound to its vinyl seat for warmth.
Then the ewe’s water broke. Feet would probably be showing soon, Slater said. An hour passed quickly, but labor didn’t progress.
Most ewes deliver lambs unassisted. In some cases, the farmers will check that lambs are breathing, clear their faces and help them to nurse if they need it. Simple births can take 30 minutes, complicated ones over an hour – and a handful get difficult every season.
Often, that’s because one of the lambs is backward, with its hind legs coming first, or breech, backward with its legs tucked under. If labor slows, they need a human hand to pull them out.
Still, some lambs don’t make it. The day before, Slater had pulled a stillborn lamb from a ewe. The two in the womb behind it were born alive.
The key is to keep her determination for births like that, Slater said. It only gets scary if lives are at risk. But in the end, she said, it just is what it is.
“It’s sad, but that’s farming. That’s nature,” Hodgman said.
As Slater shoveled out the “drop pen” where ewes are moved to give birth in preparation for the next delivery, Hodgman leaned against a large bale of his second cut hay and talked about music with her and a reporter.
From this area, ewes and their new lambs are moved into small pens called “jugs” for a few days to bond before going into a group pen, then the larger barn space. This also prevents pregnant ewes from attempting to steal others’ lambs, Slater said – something else the farmers have to watch for.
As Wednesday evening wore on, labor had stalled for the ewe. Her first lamb was backward. One of the University of Maine pre-vet students who come to help out at night pulled it free with Slater’s guidance.
By the morning, both lambs were nursing. More were soon to be born.
