Wisconsin Sheep and Wool Festival 2018

So, last weekend was the first weekend in nearly a month that I didn't go anywhere or do anything huge, which is my excuse for the extreme belatedness of all my news. Somewhere in the midst of going to the local renaissance festival (hi guys!) and going to Queen's Prize (hi all of you, too!), I spent four days in Jefferson, Wisconsin, at the Wisconsin Sheep and Wool Festival.

It. Was. Glorious.

I camped on the fairgrounds, the better to sop up all the sheepiness, and to make what was secretly a work trip into more of a vacation.

This sheep knows its angles.

I met lots of Shetland sheep.

The temptation to bring all of these home was almost too strong to bear.

And texted several friends with backyards to see if anyone would enable me in purchasing...um...several. They are very small and would have easily fit in the back seat of my car.

They look like a boy band.

These, on the other hand, were quite large (I'm crouching to take this photo, but they're easily Great Dane-sized or slightly taller, and definitely meatier). I think they're Suffolks.

I so wanted to pet this dude, but he wasn't into it.

They were beautiful, but skittish (as sheep are prone to being). When all you have for defense are 200 of your closest friends, one of whom is hopefully slower than you, you tend to regard all things as Dangerous.

Arteestically deescheveled.

I believe this was one of the Cormos in the Hall of Breeds, which had several (primarily wool or dual-purpose) breed examples graciously provided by local farmers. (And some not-so-local farmers, too. More on that later.) She was much more interested in eating than in posing.

Shockingly stable little apparatus.

The only real hiccup was that when I reserved a camping space, I expected...a campsite. With all the attendant amenities, such as a firepit, maybe a picnic table, probably a gravel pad. Instead there was...grass. Grass is nice! Grass is vastly better than mud! Grass is...flammable. And I didn't think management would take to me excavating a proper firepit, no matter how neatly I replaced the sod.

So I went on a jaunt to the nearest place that sold camping equipment, and bought a little propane stove and a frying pan. And then learned how to cook, assisted by the evening breeze that kicks up in Jefferson, WI:

Step One: Get out materials. Swat mosquitoes. Set up small cardboard box at a decidedly unsafe distance from the camp stove.

Step Two: Light a match, to light the candle you brought on a whim and because candles are always handy when camping, to light the stick you picked up from under the trees, to light the stove. Resist the urge to swat the mosquitoes now landing on your unprotected flesh. Reflect on the fallacy of embodiment.

Step Three: Put the skillet on the stove. Swat mosquitoes.

Step Four: Sort of brutalize bratwurst, in an attempt to cut it up without getting raw meat on anything but the knife and the skillet. Call it good when it resembles a Lovecraftian horror. Wipe the knife clean, thank your ancestors for their stomachs of steel, chop some mushrooms, onions, bell peppers, and cheese, and chuck everything (not the cheese) into the pan. Stir, while swatting mosquitoes who haven't learned from their fallen sistren, until everything is hot and you're bored.

Step Five: Open a bun and put it on the skillet like a lid. Wait as long as you can stand, pull the bun off and use it to line your bowl, then pile the hash on top. Crumble cheese over all and snarf. Don't forget to turn the stove off.

All in all it was quite successful, and now I have a camp stove that packs down incredibly small, and an appropriately sized skillet for it.

HaHA, with my shawl on my head, you can't see my two-days-unwashed hair. Not that anyone cares when you're camping.

I also underpacked a wee bit, but luckily (along with the candle, which was almost meant to be a joke to myself, but those old camping manuals know what they're about) I'd thrown one long-sleeved shirt and my favorite shawl in my bag, and between those and wool socks (and the addition, halfway through the festival, of incredibly cushy alpaca felt sole inserts), I was pretty comfortable.

The border collie trials were easily the best reason to get up achingly early in the morning I've had in a while. This video is the first leg of one of the pro-novice dogs' trial, fetching sheep from the far end of the field and driving them through the center gate. Next, the dog has to stop the sheep at the shepherd's feet, turn them around the shepherd, and head them over to another gate, where they turn and cross the width of the field, go through yet a third gate, and are then driven into a pen. All while the shepherd stands still and whistles or shouts commands (other than opening and closing the pen).

Good dog!

Sheep are inclined to move away from the dogs, who are inclined (and trained) to act like very small wolves. The shepherd tells the dog to stand or lie down, or to creep toward the sheep, as needed to move them where they need to go, and the sheep cluster up instinctively and move away from what looks like a threat to their hindbrains. Ideally, the dog is just close enough to make them move, but not close or aggressive enough to actually send them into a run. It's a fascinating balance.

I'm still amazed this photo came out so well.

And the dogs very clearly love their jobs.

Fresh sheep!

I missed all three of the lambings that happened during the festival, but did get to see lambs mere minutes old, figuring out the various and yet related concepts of 'legs' and 'other people's legs' and 'udder.'

There's nothing at all to look at in this video, but if you lie down in a tent (you can just put up a sheet between the couch and the coffee table, if you don't have a tent handy) and play it, you'll get my lullaby all three nights of the festival.

(Fun fact: it took 1.5 of 3 nights for me to realize that the deep-voiced, mysteriously agitated man wandering the premises shouting "HEY" at top volume was, in fact, a sheep. They don't use the sheep voices that sound like grown men in movies, and while my blood now runs rather to rural rhythms, I'm still a suburb girl in some ways.)

I wish I could convey to you the sheer joy of running my fingers through this fleece.

There were extremely tempting racks of sheepskins about every third vendor in both lanes of both sales barns, and I think I petted most of them longingly. I didn't end up buying one, in part because I realized that part of my longing was inspired by the near-40-degree nights, and that once I was home I'd have very little use and even less storage space for a sheepskin. Even a scrumptious sproingy ringletty one. (Yes, I am still a little enamored.)

I worked valiantly not to drool all over this.

I had gone to the festival knowing that there'd be a Gotland fleece show and sale, and planning to buy one (just one!) fleece, because I've completely fallen in love with the silvery tones Gotlands produce. And because I'm a nerd, and Gotland fiber is the source of the exceptional fabric used in the Lord of the Rings movies for the elven cloaks, and I have a vague dream of making my own elven cloak with handspun fiber.

I certainly petted many of the fleeces in the show, and kept well away during the silent auction, because competition + something Sabine desperately wants + the generally unreal sense of the money being pledged in a silent auction setting is a recipe for disaster for me. When I swung by again to see what was available for direct sale, I had a wee bit of sticker shock—I knew Gotland fleece would be expensive, but I hadn't budgeted enough for really high quality fleece.

Despite my restraint at the fleece sale, I did buy a half-pound of Gotland top from a lovely woman who'd tipped me off that she'd have her fleeces for direct sale at her booth on the last day (again, tempting, but it turns out she was the source of most of the award-winning fleeces). It's enough to keep me busy for the moment.

So I adore Gotland fleece, and I predictably fell in love with Shetlands (they're miniature! and opinionated! they come in 12 colors and 30 named color patterns! what's not to love?), but I was unprepared for these critters. They're Valais Blacknose crosses (x Scottish Blackface, also a very charming breed) from Joy and Martin Dally's flock, and they came all the way from Oregon to charm the pants off everyone who even poked their noses into the Hall of Breeds barn.

Full Valais Blacknoses don't exist in the U.S. yet, but the Dally farm is one of a few producers working with a variety of foundation ewes to breed up pure lines; to meet the breed standard, the sheep need to be horned, with fully black faces back to the eyes, and black ears all the way to their heads, as well as black boots, knees, and hocks. The friendliness is also part of the breed standard; it's like meeting a dog in sheep's clothing.

They produce fairly coarse, lustrous fiber (which I found surprisingly soft, for the micron range—around 30 microns, compared to the 12-24 microns of merino wool) that grows fast enough to require/permit shearing every six months, rather than the 9-12 months typical of many other fiber breeds. And clearly, I am deeply in love with them.

AND THAT'S NOT ALL but good grief, it's enough for now. I took two classes while I was there, too; one on spinning for durable sock yarn, and one on natural dyeing with indigenous and naturalized plants of the Americas.

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