Farmer’s Fate
A couple who faced harsh zoning laws relocate in pursuit of their dreams
Story by Andy Gibbs
Photos by Ed Clem
On a balmy summer day, Aaron Cohen drove past a rusty mailbox and down a rutted driveway in his electric blue Chevy. Riding shotgun, his 80-pound mastiff dangled his slobbery jowls out of the window as Cohen adjusted his aviators.
From the looks of the location, Cohen was skeptical. The property was 30 feet from the highway and neighboring mobile homes. A deafening train track paralleled with buzzing power lines topped off his disappointment. It wasn’t exactly his ideal location to continue part two of his farming journey.
Cohen first moved to the small Skagit Valley town of Hamilton in September 2014 when his stone manufacturing company in Seattle started to go under. The loss of his company and the stress that came along with it gave Cohen unbearable anxiety issues.
“I wanted to get as far away as possible from the city life and refine myself,” Cohen says.
In an effort to start fresh, Cohen decided to take on something completely new to him — farming.
Cohen began refurbishing the land at the one-acre century old farmstead in February 2015 while working construction full time. As spring arrived, Cohen smiled seeing the surrounding lilacs, poppies and magnolias bloom into full color. He tilled the soil for his gardens, dug holes for fence posts and eventually brought pigs, ducks and goats to his first farm.
As Cohen leaned against the splintery walls of his sunbleached barn, he daydreamed of a near future that included breeding goats and pursuing the path of artisan cheese making under the name “Ghostrider’s Farm.” He dreamed his goat cheese would one day be served on plates in fine dining restaurants along Chuckanut Drive.
Work on the property was going smoothly and remained uninterrupted, until Cohen’s neighbor began complaining to Hamilton city officials in secret. At the time, he thought they had a mutual understanding of each other.
Then one day, Cohen saw a man walking down his driveway, and to his surprise it was Hamilton City Council Member Brian Kirkpatrick. There was a problem, according to Kirkpatrick.
He informed Cohen that it was against the law to breed goats, meaning they could keep their animals but couldn’t obtain new ones when the older ones passed away.
“How the hell am I supposed to have milk? How the hell am I supposed to have cheese?” Cohen retorted, as Kirkpatrick stood silent.
Unfortunately, Cohen and his girlfriend, Shannon Schlosser, already planned a trip to Lake Stevens to pick up a baby buckling goat for their herd, which they already met and named. Schlosser lost her $100 non-refundable deposit.
Then there were the ducks. The mayor complained via email about the noise.
They gave away three of their six ducks to try to appease the mayor but it didn’t yield any response. The mayor instructed them of the city’s legal decibel limits and Cohen made efforts to prevent the noise caused by the ducks during feeding time at day and night. He got a bigger feeder and started free feeding them so they could eat whenever they wanted. Although it seemed to work, Cohen’s analysis of the noise levels on his property compared to that of his Honda — making just as much noise, if not more.
In August 2016, Cohen received an email from the mayor telling him to build a bigger fence around his duck pond, which was just enough to push him over the edge. Cohen and Schlosser decided to pursue their goat cheese dreams elsewhere.
“I’m an upright citizen. I pull my own weight. I’m a productive member of society. I don’t need to be told what to do,” Cohen says. “That goes way back to my youth, the old punk rock in me.”
Wanting to restart the farm he began in February 2015, Cohen toured 37 properties. In December 2016, the hunt ended when Cohen and Schlosser purchased a disheveled plot of land in Sedro-Woolley with hopes it would be the farm they always wanted.
Cohen and Schlosser’s feet sunk in the mud as they approached their newly purchased property. The December air and gray clouds above signal a heavy rainstorm. Abandoned vehicles and trash scattered the soggy landscape between the naked trees and the shrouding blackberry thickets. Tobacco smoke dissipated from the back porch as the couple scanned their new seven acre property. Their arms folded and their brows furrowed, but they saw potential for this Sedro-Woolley plot to be their goat cheese farm, without any interruptions this time.
The $330,000 property fit their budget. It would have been an extra $200,000 had it not been for the 4,000 gallons of water in the basement and abandoned vehicles littering the property. This fixer-upper was a major setback from when they started in Hamilton, but Cohen says nothing had changed in his heart. The dream of having their property support them remained.
Looking at the trashed, seven-acre property could easily be disheartening, Cohen says. Since moving in, they have made great strides in fixing the property. Having pumped all 4,000 gallons of water out of the basement, they now aim to repaint the exterior siding of the house and remodel the master bathroom. First thing each morning, he clears paths through the monstrous blackberry thickets to get his first goat pasture established.
He manages the challenge each day with 20-foot by 20-foot increments. The goal for now is to harbor a functional chunk of land similar to the size of the farm they had back in Hamilton.
“All of our resources are wrapped up into this home now, so now it’s just sweat equity as they call it,” Cohen says.
The next step is to find a tractor that can spread dirt and mulch across his new waterlogged land. Fourteen inches into the ground lies thick clay, causing all water to rise to the surface. Due to this, Cohen’s gardens and pastures will have to start from the ground up. Goats have sticks for legs and will sink right into the mud, Cohen says.
This is all new and challenging, Cohen says, but it beats dealing with the Hamilton zoning laws.
Cohen and Schlosser’s new neighbors do not tell them what to do, and in fact, they wave when they pass and bring housewarming gifts.
In their first week at the property, the couple’s neighbor Burke Smith stopped by with a hand-split bundle of kindling and a six-pack of beer.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” Smith said.
When Cohen and Schlosser had problems with coyotes attacking their ducks, Smith gave them a pistol with a handful of blanks to ward them off.
On a brisk March afternoon, Cohen and Schlosser shared a quick work break on the porch. They slipped off their boots and sat on the front steps to soak in the last moments of sun. Suddenly, a sequence of gunshots broke the silence followed by laughter and rowdy shouting. Cohen and Schlosser looked at each other and laughed in relief to have carefree neighbors.
“I love our new neighbors,” Cohen says.
Schlosser chimes, “Shoot your little hearts out.”
It was a sigh of relief for Schlosser and Cohen when they had to sign an agreement sheet acknowledging the agriculture zoning laws in their neighborhood. It said residents have no right to complain about noise, smell, machinery or animals.
In early May, Cohen sloshed through the waterlogged grass in tall rubber boots to make his daily feeding rounds at dusk. His two stout kunekune pigs waddled close behind him grunting and squealing with their bellies grazing the ground.
He lifted a garage door into the barn and the pigs followed him inside. He opened the fence gate to let out two waist-high goats, Loretta and Emmylou.
“Who’s hungry?” he says in an animated baby voice as they stampeded to their designated feeding spots.
He watched them eat as he took his moment of free time to roll a cigarette with loose tobacco. Every night, their frenzied eating springs a laugh out of him and in the end makes his farming lifestyle worthwhile.
