I Thought Homesteading Would Be Peaceful – Then I Got Chickens

The Peaceful Homestead Dream (Meet Reality)

When I first set out on this homesteading journey, I had a picturesque vision in my head. I imagined soft morning light filtering through the barn, a basket of fresh eggs on the counter, and maybe even the kids (or me, let’s be honest) frolicking barefoot in dewy grass. Peaceful, right? Reality check: what I got was mud. So much mud. Mud on my boots, mud on the porch, and inevitably, mud on the kitchen floor. And at the center of this muddy, feathery chaos were my beloved chickens – each one a tiny tornado turning my peaceful dream into a daily comedy of errors.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore those clucking troublemakers. But if I ever write a homesteading guide, Chapter 1 will be titled “Expect the Unexpected: Feathered Mayhem Edition.” Because the moment I added chickens to my tranquil country life, things got interesting in a hurry. Let me introduce you to the cast of characters and calamities that have made my farm anything but peaceful.

The Silkie Rooster and the Bullying Hens

First on the roster is Sunshine, my outrageously fluffy silkie rooster (yes, the macho fellow is named Sunshine – it’s a long story). Silkies are known for being gentle and looking like feather dusters with legs. I figured he’d be a quirky, peaceful addition to the coop. Surely such an easygoing, cotton-ball of a rooster would bring harmony to the flock, right? Oh, how naïve I was.

From day one, my hens took one look at Sunshine and decided this poofy gentleman was not going to be boss. Maybe it was his flamboyant feather-do or his comically tiny crow that sounded more like a strangled squeak at dawn. Whatever the reason, the hens formed a feathery mafia and Sunshine was the target. They pecked at him, stole his treats, and outright bullied him whenever my back was turned. I’d walk into the coop to find poor Sunshine huddled in a corner, looking like a defeated plush toy while the hens strutted around like mean girls in high school.

One particularly chaotic morning, I discovered him with a missing tail feather and an expression that said, “Human, do something!”. That was it – the girls had drawn first blood (er, feather). So, like any good barnyard bouncer, I intervened. I ended up separating Sunshine into his own bachelor pad (a sectioned-off corner of the coop, complete with his personal food dish and a mirror for companionship). The instant relief on his face was priceless. The hens went back to pecking order business (literally), and Sunshine got to recover in peace, regrowing his dignity one feather at a time.

Homestead Proverb: You can’t judge a rooster by his feathers – especially if he’s a silky-soft lover, not a fighter. Sometimes, even a king needs his own castle (or a safe coop away from his queens!).

Herding Hens: The Nightly Bedtime Circus

If you’ve never tried to put unwilling chickens to bed, consider yourself spared from a special kind of evening rodeo. See, I always heard that “chickens come home to roost on their own at sunset.” In theory, as dusk falls, they’re supposed to waddle into the coop, hop on their perches like well-behaved toddlers climbing into bed, and drift off to chicken dreamland. In theory.

My hens must have missed that memo. Because every sunset at my place turns into The Great Chicken Chase. The sun starts dipping, the sky blushes orange, and I naïvely approach the coop expecting to simply latch the door... only to find half the flock partying in the bushes refusing to go to bed. There’s always a few rebels scratching around in the flowerbed or loitering under the ATV, trying to squeeze just five more minutes of daylight fun.

Picture me in the yard at 9 PM, bug bites covering my arms and mosquitoes buzzing in my ears, as I engage in a battle of wits with a stubborn hen named Gertrude. She sees me coming and promptly scoots the opposite direction, squawking indignantly. I go left, she darts right. I lunge, she flaps just out of reach in a flurry of feathers and angry clucks. Meanwhile, the other hens have caught on that “bedtime” is approaching and start playing hard-to-get too. It’s like a feathery version of tag, except I’m “it” and also the only one actually following the rules.

Inevitably, I end up trudging back and forth, waving a scoop of feed like a lure. (If any neighbors are watching, I’m sure it looks like I’ve lost my mind, doing a one-person chicken flash mob in the yard while cursing under my breath). I’ll admit, there’s been some choice language during these herding antics — something about “Get in the coop, you little *%@#!” might have echoed across the dusk fields more than once. My peaceful sunset stroll has become a nightly comedy routine of me vs. 20 obstinate birds.

Eventually, with a mix of coaxing and (gentle) cornering, every last hen begrudgingly waddles into the coop. I shut the door, latch it, and lean against it sweating, panting, and picking straw out of my hair. Peace at last. That is, until the next sunset when we do it all again.

Rural Wisdom: You can lead a hen to the coop, but you can’t make her roost… at least not without a half-hour chase and a healthy sense of humor.

Hawks: The Swooping Terror from Above

Just when I thought I’d seen it all, homesteading threw a literal bird of prey at me. One lazy afternoon, I was in the kitchen enjoying a rare quiet moment (probably the first in weeks). The chickens were free-ranging happily in the yard, clucking about and hunting bugs without a care. I remember thinking, “Ah, maybe this is peaceful after all.” Big mistake – I must have jinxed it, because no sooner had that thought floated through my head than I heard a blood-curdling racket from outside: panicked squawks, wings flapping, pure chaos.

Heart in throat, I sprinted out the door, nearly slipping in – you guessed it – mud on the way. I look up just in time to see a huge hawk launching itself off the ground and up over the fence, a flurry of feathers in its wake. For a split second I’m awestruck (it’s a magnificent creature, until you realize it’s there for murder), then reality slams in: roll call the flock! Hens are screaming and running for cover under every bush and vehicle. I see a pile of feathers that used to belong to my sweet hen Marigold, and my stomach drops. Sure enough, the hawk made off with her and another pullet in that sneak attack.

I wish I could say I handled it with stoic frontier grit, but truth be told I was shaken and teary as I gathered up the remaining girls. There’s nothing quite like the eerie silence after a hawk attack – the survivors were hiding and clucking softly, and poor Sunshine (in his bachelor pen) was crowing his head off in alarm, the bravest he’d ever sounded. I found a couple of hens huddled under the porch, and one actually flew onto my shoulder, trembling (turns out, a terrified chicken will accept any port in a storm, even a human).

After the shock subsided, I became a one-person anti-hawk task force. I shook my fist at the sky yelling, “Not today, feathered nightmare! I’m watching you!” (I’m sure the hawk was quaking in its talons at my display… or laughing). I also hung old CDs and shiny ribbons around the coop area to shimmer and hopefully spook any future aerial assaults. For days after, every passing crow-sized shadow caused me or the hens to flinch. It was an unexpected tragedy in our otherwise slapstick adventure, and I learned that Mother Nature can flip the script from comedy to horror in an instant.

Homestead Lesson: “Don’t count your chickens before the hawk takes its share” – a grim twist on a saying, but one I now live by. Vigilance is the price of peace on a homestead… and even then, nature sometimes has other plans.

The Fox on the Fence (A Midnight Visitor)

Just as the flock and I recovered from the hawk ordeal, another cunning adversary emerged – this time on the ground. Or should I say, above it. It was a dim early morning when I stumbled out to the coop in my pajamas, coffee not yet ingested, only to freeze at the sight of a red fox literally perched on top of the chicken run. That sly critter had climbed or leapt up and was balancing on the wire roof of the run, peering in at my chickens like a kid eyeing candies in a jar.

For a surreal second, the fox and I just locked eyes. He looked as shocked as I was – as if caught in the act by the principal. My brain registered: FOX! On the coop! and I reacted in the only sensible way before coffee: I yelled incoherently and flailed my arms like one of those wacky inflatable tube men. “HEY! GET OFF MY COOP YOU %$#@!!” I roared, sprinting forward in mismatched slippers.

The fox, realizing this crazy human was coming in hot, tried to scrabble away but in its haste it fell right through the netting partway. Now the fox was half-in, half-out of the run, scrambling in a tangle of chicken wire and pure panic. The hens below erupted in fresh screams seeing fox legs dangling above them – it was absolute pandemonium (again!). Feathers flying, chickens running in every direction inside the enclosed run, and one very confused fox trying to backpedal.

By the time I reached the coop, the fox managed to wrench itself free and leap off, disappearing into the brush with a frustrated yelp. I was left breathless, clutching a pitchfork I didn’t remember grabbing, surrounded by spooked chickens who looked at me like, “Did you see that?!”. I sure did, girls. I sure did. I spent the next hour inspecting the run for damage, reinforcing where that fox had landed, and muttering about how I apparently need a Fort Knox security system for a bunch of birds that cost me $5 each.

That cheeky fox hasn’t made a successful entry to date, but it still skulks around. I’ve spotted it at dusk trotting along the treeline, probably waiting for the day I forget to lock up or maybe when I’m not out there doing my ridiculous “fox-be-gone” dance. Around here, the old-timers say, “Lock your coop and carry a big stick.” I now understand completely.

Despite the Chaos: Why I Still Keep Chickens

After all these misadventures – the mud, the bullied silkie rooster, the nightly herding gymnastics, the hawk attacks, fox parkour on my coop – a sensible person might ask: Why on earth do you still keep chickens?

I ask myself this on the hard days, usually while peeling my face off the muddy ground after tripping in a gopher hole during a chicken chase, or when I’m patching up the coop again at 6 AM with bed-head and an attitude. But here’s the thing: for every ounce of chaos these chickens bring, they give back a pound of joy (and a ton of hilarious stories).

There’s the quiet morning moments where I sip my coffee and watch the hens scratch around peacefully (finally tired from their nightly shenanigans). The sun comes up, nobody is squawking murder, and it’s... dare I say it... peaceful. In those moments, I remember why I wanted this life. The simple contentment of happy animals, the thrill of collecting warm eggs from the nest box (accompanied by proud clucks as if each hen is saying, “Look what I made!”). Even Sunshine the silkie, now safe in his own corner, greets me with a goofy crow that always makes me chuckle – it sounds like a rusty squeaky toy and never fails to brighten my mood.

And oh, the lessons I’ve learned! My chickens have taught me patience (nothing humbles you like trying to outsmart a bird brain that, surprise, has a mind of its own), resilience (I’ve bounced back from predators and pulled through midwinter blizzards with a heat lamp and sheer determination to keep the flock safe), and to find humor in the little things. I mean, not many people get to say they spent their evening playing tag with a chicken or had a stare-down contest with a fox at dawn. It’s absurd, it’s messy, and it’s wonderful in its own twisted way.

At the end of each crazy day, I still lean on the coop door, listening to the gentle cooing of hens settled in for the night. I’ll catch a whiff of that sweet hay-and-feather smell (ignore the hint of poop – part of the ambiance, I swear), and I feel a warm swell of pride and affection. This is my circus, these are my monkeys... er, chickens. It may not be the peaceful homesteading life I envisioned, but it’s richer and funnier than anything I could have dreamed up.

Despite all the madness, I keep chickens because they make this little patch of farm truly feel like home. Life out here is peaceful sometimes – just usually before I open the coop door in the morning and after everyone’s safely tucked in at night. Everything in between? Well, that’s the price of admission for the best show in town. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Country Proverb (Revised): “Blessed are the cracked (eggs), for they let in the light.” In other words, a little chaos keeps life interesting – and if you can laugh through the feathers and mud, then maybe you’ve found the real peace after all.