When we started this blog, we promised to share not just the highs of modern-day farming—but the lows too. Last week, we faced one of those lows head-on.
A stretch of relentless heat pushed our livestock and ourselves to the brink. With temperatures soaring into the upper 90s and “real feel” readings well over 100, the days were stifling. The cattle clustered under trees, pigs wallowed in whatever mud they could find, plants wilted beneath the sun’s piercing rays—and the air was so thick and heavy, even the nights offered no relief.
While all our animals felt the strain, our chickens suffered the most. Unlike other livestock, chickens rely on evaporative cooling techniques like panting and regulating through their feathers. On days like this, they depend heavily on cold, clean water and cooling aids like frozen ice rings.
This particular day was chaos. I was juggling a thousand things at once—sweating through my shirt while chasing two little ones, trying to keep everyone cool. My toddler, JR, usually full of energy, started slowing down. Eventually, the weather got the best of him, and he threw up from the heat. I was doing everything I could to care for him and keep the rest of the farm running.
In the middle of that chaos, I made a mistake.
John had filled the large chicken waterer before leaving for work that morning, and when I checked on the animals mid-day, I assumed the chickens were all set until evening chores. But the hose line had kinked—a simple, small failure that I completely missed.
By the time we discovered the issue that evening, 40 chickens had died from heat exhaustion and dehydration. It was a gut punch. The waterer had never failed us before. We usually keep smaller, backup gallon waterers around the coop, and on any other day, they likely would’ve been enough. But not this day. Not the hottest day of the year.
I ran to the store, bought new traditional-style waterers—ones that don’t rely on hoses—two of the largest they had: 7 gallons each. I rushed home, mixed electrolytes, offered them to the flock, sprayed cool water, and added fresh ice rings. I did everything I could, but 10 more chickens died in the following hours. The rest—thankfully—recovered completely.
Still, the loss of 50 birds has weighed heavily on me.
Yes, they were “just chickens,” and yes, they were being raised for meat. But their lives had value—far beyond dollars and cents. We raised them with intention and care, and they had a purpose. One they’ll never get to fulfill.
What hurts most is knowing their deaths were preventable. I was distracted, overwhelmed, and I missed something. And it cost them their lives.
But I refuse to let this be a failure that ends in shame. If it has to be a failure, then let it be one I fail forward from.
So, what have we changed?
We now double-check all livestock water—especially on hot days. We’ve switched completely away from hose-reliant waterers. We keep electrolyte powder stocked at all times. And we’ve added larger backup water sources, not just for emergencies, but as part of our everyday routine.
The lives lost won’t be in vain if they lead to better care, better systems, and greater vigilance.
Farming often looks idyllic from the outside, but it comes with harsh realities and unforgiving consequences. This is one of those hard lessons. One I’ll carry with me every time the temperature rises and I walk out to the barn with a water bucket in hand.