Springtime enlivens the Sandburg Home

Ready for a close-up

Once I drifted into western Carolina borderlands, the pull of Flat Rock was inescapable. Few houses feel like going home as much as the Carl Sandburg Home, protected as a national historic site.

The first national park site to honor a poet, the Carl Sandburg Home sits on a hill overlooking a lake formed from an impounded creek. In October, the site celebrates 50 years since Lillian Sandburg donated the home to the park service. Immediately I was reintroduced to the steep third of a mile path to the house, which winded me more than I hoped.

The home dates to the 1830s, Charleston businessman Christopher Memminger built it as a summer home. He later became the Confederacy’s secretary of the treasury, and at the end of the Civil War, the house was a redoubt for his family and friends. It would have other associations before the Sandburgs relocated from Michigan in 1945 when Mrs. Sandburg wanted a warmer climate for her goats.

Vintage postcards

The lot was almost full by 9:30 a.m.. I couldn't imagine my destination would be such a draw, but I quickly found out why. What I missed on the last visit, when overcast skies and sporadic showers gave us the farm to ourselves, was the large number of locals hiking the home’s trails. On a clear Monday in the high 60s, dozens walked the trails – it was their park, and if it were in my background, I would never tire of its paths.

The poetry is only part of the story – the farm fills most of the site’s 700-plus acres. The descendants of Mrs. Sandburg’s famous goats keep grazing the lower elevations. Last time, we found a number of the Nubian, Saanens and Toggenburg goats pregnant.

By visiting in later spring, I was almost guaranteed to see the tiniest goats possible. These kids were only the first bunch of 2018. More were due to arrive through the next six weeks. I timed my trip to the Carolina mountains based on the image the Connemara Farm posted a month earlier with due dates for the farm’s does.

Baby goats exude cuteness. Maybe it’s those tiny bleats and that they seem fully formed when only weeks old. Maybe it’s their mother standing immediately across the fence to attempt to supervise them – they would irregularly bleat back and forth. Outfitting them in tiny sweaters makes them double adorable.

These kids weren’t hard to find - they were playing outside the goat pen. Two were seven weeks old, two were three weeks old. The difference of four weeks was massive – the older kids were almost double the size of the younger ones. After their first week, the farm volunteers move the kids into the open yard to socialize and be around people. The four little ones all wore sweaters to avoid the mountain cold. At night, they had more time with their mothers.

A volunteer pulled the little goats away from the fence gate – they were small enough to squeeze through a tiny gap in attempting to rejoin their mother. Volunteers repeatedly pulled them back into the yard, and eventually they started romping. The older kids explored feeding troughs, the hay barn and other barnyard structures.

The barnyard bustled with volunteers following the herd and others stocking hay. Other creatures wandered freely. As a rooster crowed from the chicken coop, John the cat strode up, pausing for a sniff of my hand and some scratches. John and his fellow cat Josh patrol the goat farm, living a charmed life. 

Three-week-olds trying to reach mom

I spent about 10 minutes in the goat pen before a class of 100 seventh-graders arrived to conduct genetic tests for their science class. A lone man could not compete with that attention. That was the socialization the baby goats needed, not my camera lens shooting them in sports mode.

Inside the goat enclosure, two adults fought over who got to strand atop a wooden coil. The goat already standing on it repelled assault after assault from a second goat. Quiet time with the goats came and went, so I took what time I could and decided this beautiful morning demanded a retreat into the mountains. 

A coil worth fighting for

At the Sandburg home, one can walk from the farm to the ridgetop in minimal distance. For more than a mile, the Memminger Path snaked up Big Glassy Mountain, the park’s longest and steepest trail. After steep steps past another tiny dam, lots of budding trees and still pines, the trail came out onto a ridge with a mix of pines and exposed stone.

I imagined the poet wandering these heights, drawing inspiration for the solitude, the bird calls in the pines. The trees would have been much shorter, and he probably could have seen his farm from Big Glassy’s smooth stony ridge. These days, there are glimpses of far-off ridges and towns, a power plant on the French Broad River near Asheville the tallest structure visible.

Big Glassy overlook

Every fold of the Blue Ridge glimmered with inspiration. Crowded as the farm was, I reached the overlook alone and had moments to myself, necessary moments. I raced to the top and I had long seconds to myself. I lost all thoughts and succumbed the mountain ridges around me. No one talking, no one shooting photographs, no one bleating (well, I’d be fine with that), just needed silence on a mountaintop.

As I left the overlook I came upon a man I met at the farm below. He was not a volunteer, but a traveler from Toronto spending a week in the Blue Ridge. His Halifax Humane Society T-shirt should have told me. He was starting a week in the Asheville area, and had a list of peaks to visit. We talked about the farm and Sandburg's beautiful chunk of real estate. His itinerary of made me wish I had more time.

Crazy drunk scarecrow

Not having time, I descended the trail, almost running at times, then took a last peak at the garden and the farm. Along with a well-dressed scarecrow, signs identified the crops, including one for first-year asparagus, with a warning not to harvest those vegetables.

The barnyard seemed deserted. The Connemara goats had dispersed across the fields surrounding the barn. I took a last look across the farm before turning onto the cool wooded paths around the home’s various buildings. The Sandburg home is a hard place to leave. Walking the path down to the lake, I soaked in every smell and noise, the creek waters trickling over the dam, the mansion sitting silently on the hill above.

It’s hard to fret too much about leaving, not after the rush of different experiences the home offers. A few minutes of tiny goats in knit sweaters brightens any day. Blink and they’ll be fully grown. Next year, a new round of goats will roam the yard, just as they have since the Sandburgs arrived in the 1940s.

Seven-week-olds strutting in the yard